Divided We Fall
by Scribbler
Summary: After a long dry spell, a new Shen Gong Wu finally reveals itself. Huzzah! Unfortunately, it's buried a magical fortress in the Sahara, and the apocalypse worshipping cult guarding it are planning the sacrifice of a Xiaolin Dragon to resurrect their god.
1. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Disclaimer:** So very not mine. Hannibal Roy Bean would've been created by Wuya if canon was my playground.

**A/N:** This is a fic I started writing back in June 2005. However, for one reason and another I stuck it on the back burner and didn't remember it again until I watched _Time After Time I _and _II_, the Season Three double-episode finale. Suddenly my XS synapses were all fired up, so I dug out my earlier (supposed to be an) opus and got working again. Therefore I'd ask people to be gentle with the first few chapters, as they were written when I was in a very different frame of mind than I am these days.

**Continuity:** Early Season Two.

**Feedback:** Yes, please!

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_**Divided We Fall**_

© Scribbler, April 2006.

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_Did you say everything you could?  
Do the things that you thought you would?  
Did it ever occur to you that this could be your final day?  
Did you go where you wanted to go?  
Learn about what you wanted to know?  
Did you ever really give something back instead of always taking in? _

Did you find what you're looking for?  
Did you get your foot in the door?  
Can you look at yourself and feel proud of all the things you've done?  
Did you inspire the ones that you knew?  
Make a difference to those who knew you?  
Did you finally figure out what it is that makes us who we are today?

-- From **_Did You_**, by Hoobastank.

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**1. Be Careful What You Wish For…**

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Kimiko launched herself with fists bunched. Raimundo evaded the attack so swiftly he seemed to slip between moments, and she went flying past with an arm outstretched. Cursing herself for making a beginner's mistake, she brought her body up short, pivoted on the balls of her feet and struck out with her left fist, then her right, and then spun into a roundhouse kick. He dodged both punches and leaned backwards to grab her ankle as it skimmed by his face. Then he yanked on her leg – hard. Her balance thrown, Kimiko tilted sideways and fell, bracing her hands to stop her nose from making friends with the hard floor.

"Dirty trick!" she exclaimed.

"Hey, all's fair in war and workout." Raimundo smirked, still holding onto her ankle so that she sprawled on her hands and right knee, left leg in the air. "And by the way; had this been an actual showdown, I'd be long gone with the Shen Gong Wu right about now."

With a furious growl, Kimiko threw her entire bodyweight into a twist that made her spine shriek like a little kid who'd lost his silver coin down a storm drain. It was a reckless move. Had Raimundo been expecting and prepared for it, her vulnerable position left her wide open for an attack. Luckily for her, he'd assumed the fight was over. He stumbled when she wrenched her leg from his grasp and flipped to her feet.

"It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings," she said with a fierce little smile.

"Better break out the arpeggios then." He took up a ready pose and flashed her a you-really-have-no-idea-what-you're-up-against grin. "You've been overdoing it on the chow-mein lately, Kimiko."

"Hey!" Incensed by his taunt – exactly his plan – Kimiko threw herself at him in a whirling dervish of angry, but easily avoidable punches and kicks.

Sat on a set of narrow steps nearby, Omi and Clay watched the fight unfold with differing levels of interest. Clay concentrated more on sewing up a tear in one of his tunics, a jam jar of threads, needles and pins placed next to his feet. For him, the fight was incidental, since he'd only come outside because the light was better. Omi had no such activity to divert him. He wore a small frown as he watched Kimiko clumsily batter at Raimundo's defences.

"I do not understand," he said at last, after Raimundo leapt out of Kimiko's reach onto a wall and made faces while she yelled insults at him.

Clay looked up. "Understand what, lil' buddy?"

"Master Fung has given us a 'day off'. And yet still Kimiko and Raimundo train with each other." Omi shook his head. "While I am understanding their eagerness to train, I do not understand why they complain so very much about Master Fung's instruction, and then train some more when they do not have to."

Clay watched Kimiko leap onto the wall from a cold stand and land a good haymaker on Raimundo, who had obviously assumed she'd need a running start to get that high. "Shucks, Omi, this ain't about trainin'."

"It isn't?"

"Heck no."

"Then … why do they fight each other in the manner of training if it is not, in fact, training that they wish to accomplish?"

Clay looped his needle around and tied off his neat and even stitches. With no mother, and a father who didn't 'do' such menial tasks, the Bailey children had learned to take care of their own basic domestic needs from an early age. "I don't know. Cabin fever? Payback for a prank? Some bet we don't know about? Maybe you should ask 'em when they're done. All I knows is, when those two got their hearts set on beatin' the snot outta each other, tryin' to talk either of 'em out of it is like tryin' to herd cats."

Omi considered this for a moment. "I had not realised your home cared for cats as well as cows, my friend."

Clay rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and was about to correct the misunderstanding when there was a loud cry from the courtyard. Both boys looked to where Raimundo had jumped from the wall and finally taken a more offensive tack, catching a just-landing Kimiko with an open-palm strike that sent her pirouetting to the floor.

Sweeping around like a scythe blade, Kimiko tried to knock Raimundo's legs from under him with her own, but he danced lightly away, going into a needless handspring that was as much to show off and show her up as help him fight better.

She gritted her teeth, making a conscious effort to keep her temper under control. After all, there was no point in losing her cool. That would just cloud her judgment, which would mean Raimundo would win, which would mean him being unbearable for the rest of the day. She could already imagine him heckling her about her defeat, right down to the tone of voice he'd use – and if there was one thing she loathed, it was Raimundo when he was lording it. He hadn't even been a Xiaolin Apprentice that long. Winning their match had a degree of honour at stake.

In truth, this particular fight had started because of a number of things. Defending her honour as an I've-been-one-longer-than-him Xiaolin Apprentice was as good an explanation as any, should Master Fung or one of the other monks ask. Sometimes they did – usually when medical patching up was involved afterward – and it was good to have a sound reason handy, even if 'sound' was rarely a word that could be employed for their tussles. It was difficult to tell whether Master Fung approved of scrapping after-hours, but the other monks habitually clicked their tongues as they applied bandages, band-aids and poultices to their wards.

Really, Kimiko told herself, they shouldn't have to justify themselves. They were doing exactly what they were supposed to do. They were the Chosen Ones, collectors of the Shen Gong Wu, defenders of the innocent, and occasional saviours of the world. They were meant to be primed for action, always ready to jet off and battle evil at a moment's notice. That sort of lifestyle demanded they keep in shape and stay sharp. After one showdown when she'd been briefly transformed into Lard Girl and introduced to what it might feel like should she _not _stay in shape, she was keener than ever to stay in tip-top condition.

Recently, however, things had been quiet. Dojo hadn't sensed any new Shen Gong Wu in almost two and a half months, and the young Apprentices were getting restless. They trained with Master Fung, trained with the Shen Gong Wu they already possessed, trained in both ancient and new arts of combat, made up some of their own, and trained in the development of those uncanny powers that _made _them Chosen. They trained hard – perhaps sometimes a little _too _hard – but day after day without something to break the monotony was a bit much. They were still young, and with youth came impatience.

Kimiko grasped that training was a vital part of becoming a full Dragon warrior. Intellectually, she knew that with every training session she was spending her time, as Omi put it, 'most wisely'. Nevertheless, when things on the Wu front were slow, that was when a bit of doubt might creep in; doubt that she really was keeping her edge without some challenge to test it on. She wasn't quite going stir-crazy, but after months of upheaval, adventure and several near-impossibilities that pretty much left the laws of physics whimpering on the ground, plain old training was dull.

What she needed was some action, some adrenaline, and a nice juicy showdown or two. She would even have settled for one of Spicer's Jack-bots. See Kimiko. See Jack-bot. See Kimiko kick Jack-bot's butt. It was what she needed to keep her focus.

For now, though, Raimundo would have to do.

It was no secret that she and Raimundo sometimes rubbed each other up the wrong way. They had the most explosive personalities of their little group, and having them live together was as unpredictable and volatile as mixing chemicals from unlabeled bottles. Things had been especially strained after the whole Wuya-regaining-her-body-and-taking-over-the-world incident, but considering Rai's role in that, Kimiko had felt she was entitled to a bit of hostility.

Of course, he had eventually rescued them all, and in the weeks following had gone a long way to proving himself once again worthy of the Xiaolin cause. The fact that he'd now graduated to Apprentice status spoke for itself. Like a candle slowly deprived of oxygen, her hostility and natural suspicion had dimmed to an ember.

She kept any possible doubts firmly tucked away at the very back of her mind, simply because it was easier to operate that way than spend hours worrying about what would happen should a better offer come along again. She saw Raimundo every day without fail, slept less than three feet away from him, and each owed the other his or her life about a dozen times over. She figured she owed him the benefit of the doubt for that. Plus, Omi and Clay seemed to have completely forgiven him, and who was she to stand in the way of good team dynamics? And if she was really being honest with herself … she wanted to think he was really back for good. When it came down to the wire, they were just four kids fighting a battle of global proportions. Of their generation, they were the only four with elemental powers – the only four Chosen. Sort of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer deal, only with more dragons and less staking. Life would have been pretty lonely indeed were they not friends.

Still, for all her good intentions, sometimes Kimiko just couldn't help but get irritated with and by Raimundo. It was like some special talent he had – the Dragon of Ticking Her Off. He knew all her buttons, made a special effort to find out what made her mad and, what was worse, seemed to delight in stirring her up into one of her legendary rages. If ever a boy liked living dangerously, it was he. Bugs in her bed, replacing her toothpaste with glue, itching powder in her shoes, drawing on her face as she slept, replacing her 24-wash hair dye with permanent ink – the list went on and on. He did it to Omi and Clay too – Clay's hat was most often a casualty – but Kimiko gave the best reaction. She had challenged him to more payback fights than she could remember. Certainly enough to win all their Shen Gong Wu at least twice.

So it was not unusual for them to be out in the courtyard in the blazing sunshine, watching each other with the attention that only comes from long hours spent learning to scrutinise body language. True, like Omi had said, today was one of those rare days off from actual training, but even that didn't deter them. Where Clay was content to coast over conflict, and Omi liked to resolve it peacefully if he could, Kimiko and Raimundo took a more physical approach. When a challenge was issued, neither stopped until it had been settled.

Kimiko darted forward first and pressed her attack. Twice her blows missed, but now she had extracted herself from the moment, examining the conflict as though it were a chess match. She'd never liked chess when her father tried to teach her, but the analogy fitted nicely. Her attack now was merely a feint to draw another strike from Raimundo. When he tried to come at her with another open palm, she was ready. She sidestepped, grabbed his right fist and twirled into his arms as though they were in some ballroom dancing contest instead of a fight. Having incapacitated his right arm with her left, she thrust a short but powerful punch at his chest.

Raimundo stopped her fist with his left hand. Her knuckles cracked, and his palm had to have hurt from taking the brunt of the blow, but he effectively immobilised her right arm just as skilfully as she had his. They were deadlocked.

He grinned. "Care to give up?"

Thinking quickly, Kimiko batted her eyes at him. "If you don't let go of me, I may have to do something you really wouldn't like."

"What, beg me to let you win?"

"Not quite."

"Braid my hair? Hide my MP3-player?"

"Nope, and nope. Last chance, Rai. Give up, or face the consequences."

He shook sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. It really was a glorious day. "Ummm, how about no way, José?"

She shrugged. "Your choice. Don't say I didn't warn you." And with that, she drew back her foot and kicked him squarely in the crotch. He went down faster than dot-com stock.

On the sidelines, Omi and Clay winced. "Is she being allowed to do that?" Omi wondered.

"I reckon their rules are a lil' different than when we spar," said Clay. He screwed up his face in sympathy. "Remind me never to challenge Kimiko 'less I'm wearin' a shield."

"But Clay, I did not think you fought girls."

"True. An' besides good manners, _there's _a real good reason why."

Raimundo, in a foetal position on the ground, wheezed, "Below … the … belt."

"Well, duh." Kimiko flicked hair from her face. She'd started the day with a set of three fuchsia braids, but ended up untying and retying them into a more manageable ponytail when Raimundo's tripwire emptied a packet of muck saved from a week of dusting over her head. "You were the one who said 'all's fair in war and workout'."

"Ohaeeurgh…" he moaned.

"Oh, stop being such a big baby."

"Hey, Kimiko, give the guy a break." Clay folded his repaired tunic, stabbed his needle back into its pincushion, and got to his feet. "Y'just revalued the family jewels. Give the guy some dignity to walk away with, huh?"

"I do not think Raimundo is going to be doing much walking away at present," Omi said without a trace of irony.

"Geez. You guys think Jack Spicer wouldn't do something sneaky like that if it meant winning a showdown?"

"Don't … go giving him … ideas."

Kimiko raised her eyes skywards and considered going to change her clothes. These weren't really suitable for this extra sunny weather, and fighting had made them all grimy and sweaty and ick. A care package from home had arrived the day before yesterday, complete with several new outfits courtesy of Tokyo's newest fashion protégés. Everybody wanted to impress her father – which was irritating when she had to work to maintain his reputation, but did have fringe benefits.

After a long moment and a grimace, Raimundo rolled into a sitting position. "Overkill much?" he panted, holding out a hand for her to help him up.

Kimiko just look at it. "Nu-uh. I know where that's just been. No _way _am I touching it."

He grunted and got up by himself.

"So who's the winner?"

"Mmmrf."

"I can't hear you," she sing-songed.

Exhaling noisily, he replied, "You are."

"Right. And as the winner, I claim my prize as … you cleaning the vault staircase."

"What? But that's your job!"

"I know." She smiled sweetly. "To the winner go the spoils. And you owe me for that tripwire."

He folded his arms. "Dude, _so_ not fair. I already did my chores."

"For once," she sniped.

"On the contrary, Raimundo my friend," Omi interrupted, walking up to them now there was no chance of getting caught in the crossfire. "This is a very fair occurrence, much like when you challenged me to a contest of containing small pig-flesh sticks between one's teeth."

Kimiko shot Rai a depreciating look. "You had a contest over how many hotdogs you could fit in your mouths?"

"Yes, and Raimundo was clearly the winner. I, unfortunately, choked when I reached six sticks, whereas he contained a further three."

"It figures. That's such a … a _boy _thing to do. So what did he win?"

"Potato peeling," said Clay, also joining them, his tunic slung over one arm. "Or not doin' it, I should say."

"Oh, so you've already done all your chores, have you, Rai? I thought the food tasted better this week." Kimiko rolled her shoulders a little. They were already beginning to stiffen. She really should have warmed down. "I always said you had a big mouth."

"Hey, if it gets me out of peeling potatoes, it can be as big as it likes, dude."

"It won't get you out of my winnings." She pointed her thumb in the general direction of the Shen Gong Wu vault, also home to the Stairs of Grime That Refuses to Budge. "You. Cleaning. Now."

"But it's our day off!"

"Yeah, well, you should've thought of that before you pranked me."

Raimundo looked as though he wanted to argue more, but then thought better of it. Shoulders in a petulant hunch, he rammed his hands in his pockets and grumbled under his breath. Words like 'joke', 'unfair' and 'can't take' were the only things audible, though everyone could guess what else he was saying.

"Well," Kimiko said, melodramatically dusting off her hands, "I'm going to go change."

"Thanks for the update," Rai groused. "Should we schedule a parade?"

She was about to reply with some cutting comment about sore losers when a familiar voice cut across her. "Guys! Where are you? Omi? Clay?"

"Over here, Dojo," Omi called, as the small green dragon appeared around the corner of the building. Dojo spotted them and waved a greeting, wriggling on his arms and belly at a speed that would have rivalled creatures with four legs – or more.

Dojo was a dichotomy. He was one of the strangest parts of living in the Xiaolin temple, but also one of the most comfortable. Kimiko, Clay, Rai and Omi were Dragons, but Dojo was literally a _dragon_. That was weird in and of itself, but it wasn't even as if he fitted into the fairytale mould of what a dragon should be like. Dojo could change his size at will, fly, sense magical objects, and was over fifteen centuries old, but he had no wings, didn't sleep on a hoard of gold and could just about breathe soot.

Moreover, he was as up to date with popular culture as he could have been had been living anywhere _except _the middle of nowhere in the Chinese countryside. He knew more about civilisation than Omi, could name at least ten bands and singers in the Top Forty, knew the difference between a Honda and a Cadillac, and claimed he knew the secret to setting a VCR. It was odd that Omi hadn't learned more about the world outside the temple from living with Dojo, but Omi was so devoted to his calling that it was easy to imagine him shunning everything but training, eating and sleeping before the other three Dragons arrived.

Clay tugged at the brim of his hat. "Howdy, Dojo. What's up?"

"The sky."

"Dude, that joke's older than you." Raimundo tilted his head a little to one side so Dojo could perch on his shoulder.

Dojo shrugged. "So I like the classics. Sue me. But first," he slapped his hands together and rubbed, "lunchtime."

"Oh dear." An insincere note of apology appeared in Rai's voice. "But that means I can't scrub the stairs in the Shen Gong Wu vault. What a total shame." He snapped his fingers. "Darn it."

Dojo arched an eyebrow. "I feel for you. Now mush before the rice gets cold."

They started to walk off, but Kimiko reached out and grabbed Raimundo's elbow. "Oh no you don't. Let's get something straight; immediately after lunch, you're going to clean those stairs. And just to make sure you don't fink out or try to get away with only doing half the job, I'm going to watch."

"If you're going to be there anyway, why don't you help me? Or better yet, do it yourself."

"Raimundo…" There was a warning edge to his name.

"Don't you have other chores you could be taking care of? Like reordering your nail polish collection or something?"

Today, Kimiko had painted her nails with black polish. It was meant to match her pink and black ensemble, but actually gave her hands the appearance of an Arctic explorer with severe frostbite. She examined them for a second, and then transferred her attention back to him. "No dice. A deal's a deal."

Raimundo looked disgruntled, but raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay, I'll do it. Now can we please go eat? I'm starving."

She released his arm and they all started towards the main buildings.

Dojo, riding shotgun, rested his elbows on the top of Raimundo's head. "Let me guess: another prank been paid back?"

Omi nodded. "Most assuredly. Kimiko has washed the ground with Raimundo, and now he must complete her outstanding chores in repayment."

"Uh, that's wiped the floor, lil' buddy," Clay corrected.

"Oh no, my friend. That is what Raimundo will be doing." Omi laughed at his own joke. Kimiko hid a snicker behind her hand, while Rai rolled his eyes at the little monk's work-in-progress sense of humour.

Since dinner was the main meal of the day, lunch was a light affair. Of course, it involved rice – something that Raimundo often complained about.

"I'm not saying I don't like rice," he would say. "It's just that there's a lot more food in the world, y'know? Would it kill anybody to try serving some French fries or pizza once in a while?"

Kimiko was used to eating rice a lot, as was Omi. Clay was happy with whatever was served, provided he got a large enough portion. They ate in companionable silence for most of the meal, though Kimiko found herself remembering Rai's taunts from earlier and going for boiled brown instead of egg-fried.

"So, Dojo," she said after a while, "any word on some new Shen Gong Wu?" She couldn't quite hide the despondency of the request. It was a daily question, with a daily answer.

"Nada." Dojo shook his head, clicking his chopsticks together thoughtfully. "I gotta tell you, even I'm finding this a little weird. Since the first Shen Gong Wu activated, I've never gone this long without _something _happening. Longest was a few weeks, tops."

"Yeah." Clay reached to refill his bowl and ladle plum sauce over it. "An' we all know what happened that time."

They had been forced into four separate battles for four newly revealed Shen Gong Wu. Unfortunately, three of those battles had ended in defeat and capture, with only Omi emerging victorious. He had mounted a rescue operation with the Sun Chi Lantern, and they had eventually been reunited. It was an experience nobody much wanted to repeat. They worked better when they were all together, whether actually covering each other's backs in fights, or just standing on the sidelines giving moral support.

Raimundo paused with a blob of rice halfway to his mouth. It had taken a while, but he was now as practised with chopsticks as he was with cutlery. "Wait a second, does this mean we're going to get a whole bunch activating at the same time again?"

"I shouldn't think so." Dojo scratched the back of his head with the tip of his tail. "At least I hope not. While there can be times when accumulations of Shen Gong Wu reveal themselves, Dashi never mentioned anything about a big lull meaning a motherload."

"From what Omi told us, Grand Master Dashi never mentioned a lot of important stuff." Kimiko poked at her food with her chopsticks. "Or else he wrapped it up in riddles first so nobody could understand him."

"We all have our eccentricities," Dojo half-defended, though everyone knew the enigmatic legacy of Grand Master Dashi often exasperated him as much as it did them. "At any rate," he went on, snagging the last wonton, "you guys should be able to deal with it if several _do_ appear at the same time. You've certainly been training enough. Does anybody want this?"

They shook their heads.

"Providing Jack Spicer does not attempt to once again imprison us." Omi chewed and swallowed the last of his rice quickly. "But if he does, I promise I shall once again save you, my friends."

"Gee, that makes us feel so competent," Raimundo muttered. "Clay, is there any of that plum sauce left?"

"Sorry, partner."

"Figures. Hey, Kimiko, share the wealth?"

Kimiko passed him one of the two remaining vegetable spring rolls, taking the other for herself. She stared at it for a moment. "How many calories do you reckon are in one of these things?"

"Cah-lor-ees?" Omi was nonplussed.

"Never mind." Perhaps a little defiantly, she bit into it.

When they were finished, the four young Dragons gathered up their dishes and carried them to the sink. A quick scan of the rota told them it was Omi's turn to do the washing up. While he rolled up his sleeves and got stuck into his task, Clay excused himself to go finish a letter he'd been writing to his father. Kimiko vanished for a few minutes, but reappeared holding her PDA as Raimundo was sloping off. She took hold of his elbow before he could and marched him across the courtyard.

"Aw, can't I have a rest to let my lunch go down first? A guy could get indigestion this way."

"My heart bleeds for you." She shoved him towards the broom cupboard.

He grudgingly reached for the door handle, but paused before opening it. "What killed your sense of humour today?"

"There's nothing wrong with my sense of humour."

"Suuure."

"All that dust in my hair didn't help, if you must know."

"That? That was just a joke. I think you're being a little excessive for just one prank." He looked at her earnestly. "Is something the matter? I mean, like, really? 'Cause if there is, I'd like to help."

"Dry up and get the bucket, mister. You're not guilt-tripping me into letting you off."

His expression instantly switched to a smirk. He shrugged and opened the cupboard door. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

He pulled out a bucket, several old rags, a bar of carbolic soap, a large wooden scrubbing brush and a mop. Kimiko helped him carry them across to the vault, but once there she placed them on the floor near the spiral staircase, propped herself against a pillar and tapped idly at her PDA. Raimundo got to work, still grumbling, but when it became apparent she wasn't really listening he fell silent.

An hour passed. Kimiko checked her emails, which held nothing more interesting than an invitation for car insurance and a funny forward from Kohana, one of her old friends back home. Kohana liked slumber parties and Ricky Martin and reading romance manga. She and Kimiko had little in common anymore, but they still forwarded each other things.

Kimiko had downloaded a new set of cheat codes for Goo Zombies 3, but didn't feel like playing. Every so often she would raise her eyes to see Raimundo's profile slowly disappearing below the ground, as he worked his way from step to step. Sometimes he caught her attention by exclaiming about the thick crust of grime down there. She had to admit, she'd never really figured out how a catacomb like the vault got so dirty either. It was hardly a major thoroughfare. They only went down there when they needed to bring up or replace Shen Gong Wu. It was lucky they only had to clean it every few weeks – though not so much for the person assigned the job.

She was just considering closing down her PDA and going to take that shower she'd promised herself when Raimundo resurfaced. "That's it," he said, wiping his hands on his slacks and frowning when they didn't come clean. "I'm taking a break, dude."

"I suppose you've earned one by now." She stretched drowsily, warmth suffusing her muscles from sitting still for so long.

"Your permission makes me feel so much better." He slumped down by another pillar, tipping his head back and linking his hands behind his neck. "Aw man, crouching over like that gives you such a crick in the – nhhg – neck."

Kimiko gave it a moment, then asked in her best Master Fung voice, "So have you learned anything from this, Rai?"

"Sure have."

"Good to know."

"I learned that you can be really mean and underhand when you fight. And that if I'm going to get this kind of punishment for pranking you, I should make it a real _good _prank."

Her brows knitted. "I'm was kind of hoping you'd learned not to prank people anymore."

"What?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "This little clean-up operation was supposed to do all that? I think you overreached yourself, Kimiko. I'm going to get you back _good _for making me do this. _And_ that kick in the nuts," he added.

"Hmm."

Silence arrived in a limo, tipped the driver and blanketed the scene. Outside, Kimiko could hear two of the temple monks walking by, chatting about the weather. Somewhere not-too-distant someone was banging a pot and yelling at the rats that had made a nest in the far corner of the grounds. She wondered if she should offer to take care of the pest problem. It would give her something to do other than train, and she so desperately wanted a change of pace that even rodent hunting sounded good.

"You know what I think?" Raimundo asked, breaking her from her thoughts.

She sighed. "No. What do you think?"

"I think that maybe we already found all the Shen Gong Wu, and that's why Dojo hasn't sensed any lately."

Kimiko processed this idea. Then she snorted. "That's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard – even for you. Dojo may not know where all the Wu are, but he'll know when we've found them all."

Raimundo huffed indignantly. "Uh-huh, yeah, sure. Remember, we're talking about the dude who took us around the world looking for the Sands of Time because he didn't remember it was hidden in the temple he's lived in for the past 1500 years. His memory's not all that great."

"It's still good enough that I trust his judgment."

"Whatever. I was just saying. I don't hear _you_ coming up with any better ideas for why things have been so slow lately."

Kimiko stared at the screen of her PDA. It was true; she _didn't _know why there had been no Shen Gong Wu recently. Both Dojo and Master Fung had assured them it was perfectly natural to have a lull sometimes, and that they couldn't expect to have action and adventure constantly on tap. It still reeked, though; having nothing to do but sit around and wait for something – anything – to happen.

Silence offered around a bag of hard candies and settled back down. The person banging the pot stopped, presumably to go back inside. The glorious sunshine of the morning was starting to turn into an uncomfortable, oppressive sort of heat – the kind that made clothes stick to every available piece of skin and had sweat rolling down your back with the slightest movement.

Her PDA beeped when she pressed it off, and Kimiko got to her feet. "I'm going to go get a drink. You want one?"

"Is this a reprieve I'm hearing?"

"Not a chance. I'm still dusty, and you're not done cleaning."

"Humph. Yes, please. I would love a drink. That would be so very kind and generous of you. Ooh, you're so _considerate_, Kimiko."

Taking no notice of his mock-simpering tone, Kimiko pocketed her PDA and left the vault for the kitchen. Omi was long gone from the sink, the lunch dishes washed, dried and neatly stacked in their proper places. She took down two glasses and filled them both with cold water, drinking hers and then refilling it to take both back to the vault.

When she entered, Raimundo had started working again. She could hear him grunting and coughing belowground. It surprised her a little that he hadn't taken the opportunity to run away, and she chastised herself for such an unkind thought.

"Here's your drink," she called from the top of the stairs. He was all the way around the corner already. Water sloshed with an echo.

"Thanks. Just give me a second. Man, we have _got _to clean our shoes or something before we come down here. I don't even want to _know _what somebody stepped in to make this cr-"

"Guys! Hey, you two in there!"

Kimiko looked up to see Dojo careening around the corner and catapulting himself into the room. He skidded on his coils, flipped end over end and finished up in a squashed heap against a pillar.

"Dojo?"

"Dojo?" said Rai. The water stopped sloshing. "What's he doing here? Has this humiliation become a public event?"

Pulling himself out of his own knots, Dojo scuttled the last few feet to Kimiko. He was carrying a large wooden-ended scroll.

Kimiko felt her spirits soar. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Only if you think it's a new Shen Gong Wu revealing itself." Dojo shot her a toothy grin and wrestled with the scroll to open it. "I didn't know where anyone else was, but I figured you two would still be in here, so I came to you first. Especially since you ask me about this stuff every day, Kimiko."

"Guilty as charged, and good choice."

"What's going on up there?"

"We have a Wu on radar!" Kimiko called down to Raimundo.

"Really? All _right_! I am _so_ done with this scrubbing the floors thing." There was a clatter, and the sound of something falling down the stairs. "Uh … hold that thought. Runaway bucket." Footsteps led off into the gloom.

Kimiko rolled her eyes. "So what's the Shen Gong Wu? What's it do? Does Master Fung know about it yet?"

"Nng. Like the boy said, hold that thought."

With a heave, Dojo finally managed to prize open the scroll. The centre of it glowed a faint blue, the moving images depicting two figures throwing kicks and punches at each other. Abruptly, one of the figures held up what could have been a either a rubber band or a set of knuckledusters – the latter of which seemed more likely when it slipped them over its hand and held out its fist. Immediately, a large disc appeared in front of it, sheltering it from the other figure's roundhouse.

Dojo grinned toothily. "Presenting the Saladin Shield. Only one in stock, prices rising by the second, not available in stores."

* * *

"So what's it _do_, already?"

"Patience, Raimundo." Master Fung had a voice that he didn't need to raise to command respect. It had a quiet authority; the kind that rings in the ears long after the speaker is done talking. It was the kind of voice teachers wish for and drill sergeants hate, because it defeats the idea of noise equals attention. "When we are all assembled I will explain. Ah, Clay, Dojo."

They all looked to where Clay was just coming through the door.

"Finally." Raimundo threw up his hands. "Maybe now we can get some info."

"Sorry, y'all. There was such a heap of sunshine out, I went for a walk. Dojo only just found me."

"Not that it was difficult." The little dragon was perched on his head, long body coiled in the brim of his hat. "He was singing."

Kimiko blinked. "Clay? Singing?"

Dojo nodded, a wicked smirk stretching his jawline so high it was practically sitting on the back of his head. "The hills are aliiiive," he warbled, "with the sound of muuuuuuuuuusiiiiiiiiiic. With songs they have suuuung for a thousand yeeeeeeeeeears."

"Lots of fellers sing when it's nice out. T'ain't _that_ unusual."

"Dude," Raimundo patted him on the shoulder, "I'd give up while you're losing."

Omi looked at each of his friends faces, clearly confused. "My head is filled with much bewilderment. Our hills are musical? I have never before heard them perform any music. And why is it bad for Clay to be singing about them?"

"They aren't _actually _musical, Omi," Kimiko tried to explain. "It's a song from a musical."

"A musical what?"

"No, that's it's name. A musical. It's like a play, but with lots of random singing to move the plot along and show how much characters care for each other."

"And to get people to buy the soundtrack," Raimundo added.

"I … understand," said Omi, who obviously didn't. "But that does not sound like a bad or laughingable pastime."

"It's, uh…" Kimiko started. How to explain that one? "Have you ever heard the term 'traditional gender roles'? Or 'hegemonic masculinity'?" She looked at his expression and got her answer. "Thought not."

"It's all to do with being manly," Raimundo quipped, striking a pose for good measure. "Like me."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "You scream like a girl."

"Don't insult me. That's Spicer's territory, not mine."

With the mention of a more familiar topic, Omi's eyes lit up. He seized upon the name of their … well, sworn enemy wasn't quite right. Jack Spicer had indeed aided them before, and they him. Notorious rival was still pushing it a little, but minor annoyance was too trivial a term. He was something in between, with a borderline in Annoying Jerk Who Uses the Word Evil Too Much. "Ah! Jack Spicer will no doubt be trying to also find this new, overdue Shen Gong Wu!" Omi clenched his fists. "We must retrieve it before him."

"I heard _that_," said Clay.

"I know you did. You are standing right there."

"That's not what I mea… never mind. Master Fung, what's this new Shen Gong Wu I hear tell about?"

Master Fung opened the scroll to show the same images Kimiko had watched before. Two figures, then a set of knuckledusters, followed by a big disc. "The Saladin Shield is a defensive Shen Gong Wu. When worn, it produces a protective barrier in front of the wearer. No weapon forged by man can pierce it, nor magic penetrate it."

Clay whistled. "Sounds mighty handy."

"Handy!" Omi laughed uproariously. "Oh, very funny, my friend. Because it is worn on the hand, yes?"

"Not what I meant, 'lil buddy, but I can work with that."

"So where is it?" As ever, Raimundo was impatient. This time, however, Kimiko had to agree with him. It had been too long since they got to go out looking for Shen Gong Wu, and her feet were just itching to get on the road.

"It's in the Sahara Desert," Dojo supplied, sniffing the air to make sure. "Yup. My Dojo senses are tingling."

"Excuse me?"

"Pop culture reference, Omi. Don't worry about it."

* * *

_To Be Continued …_

* * *


	2. Forbidden Ground

* * *

**2. Forbidden Ground**

* * *

"So whose bright idea was it to hide a Shen Gong Wu in a desert? Yours, or Grand Master Dashi's?"

"My memory's a little faded from that time."

"Oh, great." Raimundo pulled at the fabric covering most of his face. "So we'll just fly around in circles for a while and see what happens, huh? And while we're doing that, we'll slowly bake until we're nothing more than little pieces of greasy charcoal clinging onto your back."

"Now there's a mental image I didn't need." Dojo raised his massive head and scented the hot, dry air. He coughed, roughly jolting his passengers.

"Hey!" Clay wrapped his arms around as much dragon as he could hold – which wasn't much, since Dojo could easily have swallowed a Buick without completely opening his mouth. "Whoa there, partner."

"Dorry," Dojo apologised. "All dis sand id playing havoc wid my sinuses." He snorted, coughed again, and made several unhappy noises. "I remember now; it was Dashi who said to put it here. It has to be. I'm not that masochistic."

Below them, the Sahara stretched out like a giant polished floor. Dunes the size of the Xiaolin Temple hulked up and down, and it was easy to see how the largest, the Libyan Erg, was as big as the whole of France. Every so often they would spot oases, some with touristy buildings around them, others with makeshift tents, caravans and camels – probably belonging to the nomadic Tuareg, Kimiko said. She'd brought along her PDA, and spent much of the long trip looking up all she could about the Sahara and what they could expect to see there.

"You should like it here, Raimundo," she told him. "The winds are so unique, they give each one an individual name. Less nice for you, Omi. Those winds also pull moisture away from the desert, and they almost never bring rain. Sometimes, in some places, it can rain for a few hours and then not again for a few _years_."

"Tough break, Omi," Raimundo called. "Guess you should leave the big stuff to me on this assignment."

"Do not misunderestimate me, my friend," Omi said with a smile they could hear in his voice. "I do not need my element to screwdriver evil."

"Huh?"

"Reckon he means hammer," Clay said from the back of the line, still holding tight to Dojo.

"Hey, Kimiko? You got another one of those hats?"

"Sorry, Rai. Besides, you said it looked stupid."

"Can't a guy change his mind?"

Kimiko reached up to touch the hat with its built-in parasol, which rose above her like a modern-art flower growing right out the top of her skull. It made wind resistance interesting – she'd nearly fallen off twice when an errant gust caught it and whisked her off balance – but with the blistering sun high in the sky above them, she was nicely shaded from its rays. Heat still pounded against her skin, and she'd lathered herself in enough sun block to fill a paddling pool, but (she hoped) she wasn't at quite so much risk of heatstroke.

Each of the four Dragons carried a parcel of non-perishable food and several canteens of water – essential when visiting one of driest places on Earth. From time to time they would land in empty green places, where nobody could gawk at a dragon carrying four kids, and Dojo would shrink himself to drink from the clutch of similar canteens fastened around his neck. If there was clean-ish water nearby they would refill and rest awhile, trying not to keel over from heat exhaustion before they even found the Saladin Shield. Progress wasn't slow, but it wasn't breathtakingly fast, either. It was the kind of speed that meant they would get to their destination safely, if not soon.

Omi looked very strange with his burqua-like headdress, which Kimiko had cobbled together from half a cotton bed sheet. Raimundo wore the other half, most of his face sheltered from the sand and oppressively hot air. Clay had refused to part with his hat, claiming it had protected him well enough from the sun at home, but had relented enough to cover his mouth and nose in an improvised gauze surgical mask. Kimiko wore the same, and didn't have the heart to tell him the only suitable fabric she'd been able to find was pair of lacy underwear – never taken out of their packet, thankfully, and rendered unrecognisable by a pair of scissors and a spare five minutes before they set off. They all wore wrap-around sunglasses to keep their eyes from drying out, and from potentially blinding grains of sand.

"How much further?" Raimundo asked.

"If you can do better, I'd love for you to try," Dojo snapped, and sneezed. The jerk from it all but flung his passengers into the air.

"Aieee!" Kimiko yelled, not sure whether to grab Dojo or her PDA. She gripped tighter with her knees, like a rider on a horse a hairsbreadth from bolting. "Do you need to stop again, Dojo?"

"No, thanks. I think we're getting closer." A trifle hesitantly, Dojo breathed in. His eyes watered, and from the way his muscles tightened beneath them, the four Dragons could tell he desperately wanted a good cough, but he refrained. Dragons were much hardier than your average human – even Chosen humans – but the journey was taxing for him, too. "I … I think it's this way," he said in a strained voice, twisting towards the far horizon.

"You think?" Rai demanded. "I thought you could pinpoint a Shen Gong Wu from a million miles away?"

"Well," Dojo said diffidently, "I'm not all _that_ good, but give me a few hundred thousand miles and I'm cooking. But that's not what I meant." He sniffed again, immense forehead creasing. "I'm just finding it difficult to get a lock on this one. Give me time. I'll find it. They don't call me Devastating Dojo for nothing."

"Dude, they don't call you Devastating Dojo at _all_."

"A minor detail. Though I'd like it if you kids started calling me that. It could add to my air of mystique. Devastating Dojo, the Fifth Xiaolin Dragon."

"Ay, not this again."

Kimiko had to agree. She remembered how Dojo had spent the days following their night under the thrall of the Sapphire Dragon pleading to become a Dragon in Training like them. He had begged Master Fung to let him try out, followed herself, Clay, Omi and Rai around like a wounded puppy, and eventually taken Omi on in a one-on-one challenge to try and prove his worth. Omi had tried to be gentle, but it had been three days before the swelling on Dojo's face went down and he stopped saying how he hadn't even had a chance to resize before being knocked out.

"Maybe you should just stick to what you're best at, Dojo," she said. "We'd be lost trying to find Shen Gong Wu without you."

"Yes. You have insane skills, my friend," Omi added.

"Mad skillz," Dojo amended. "And I do, don't I? Why, you could say I was the very heart of this team. You four would be totally adrift without me. I'm vital to your efforts. I'm fundamental to your prime directive. I'm - "

"You're so full of yourself," Raimundo whispered.

"What was that?"

"I said – I said watch out for that cloud of sand!"

As one, the four Dragons bent their heads down and gripped on tight. Dojo rocketed upwards to avoid the swirl of fine sand that appeared to be just dangling in the one spot, looking for distracted mythical creatures to fly into it. The breeze that skimmed over them was not cool, nor particularly refreshing, but it was mercifully sand-free. Kimiko wondered if she'd ever be able to get all the grains out from between her toes.

They continued on for what seemed like a long time, though the conditions made time stretch to impossible lengths. Beads of sweat slipped from between Dojo's scales, running over their hands and knees and sometimes dashing against their faces. While the thought of being drenched in dragon sweat was unappealing, they all had to admit that a little moisture was better than nothing in the unremitting heat.

_Ew. I can't believe I just thought that. We are **so **chartering a flight next time._ Kimiko wondered if an airplane was really all _that_ much slower than Dojo. They'd ridden one once before, when he tired himself out looking for the Sands of Time, so she knew it was a possibility. It would sure be more comfortable. Maybe Jack Spicer had the right idea with all his customised vehicles…

"I'm sorry, guys," Dojo said at last. "I need to rest up for a while."

"But we have not yet found the Shen Gong Wu," Omi protested. He could be so single-minded sometimes. The nuances of 'focussed' versus 'obstinate' seemed to escape him completely, and it was one of his more unpleasant features.

"And we won't be any closer to finding it if I drop out of the sky in a dead faint. Especially if I fall on top of you."

"Uh, we should find a place to let you rest."

Kimiko looked around. There was only sand as far as the eye could see. "Dojo, there isn't an oasis anywhere near here." She brought up a detailed map on her PDA, but considering that just the desert part of the Sahara was three and a half million square miles, even the most detailed map wasn't going to be completely accurate. "We have to refill the canteens if we're going to drink from them. It's too dangerous to try travelling without any water with us."

"Ah, but you are not travelling without water." Omi waggled his eyebrows. They were practically the only part of his face that was visible.

"Less with the witty wordplay, okay Omi?" Raimundo also scanned the horizon for signs of life.

"Though your observation of my wordplay as witty is indeed accurate, my friend, your conclusion that I was referring to myself is not." Omi awkwardly patted his chest with one hand. "Do not despair, Dojo. I shall locate water for you." He closed his eyes and murmured something inaudible, presumably to help him concentrate. After a moment he raised a hand and pointed. "I sense water in … that direction."

"Stupendous." Dojo altered his course accordingly. "This devastating dragon needs some H2O, stat."

"That was really smart thinking, Omi," Kimiko had to admit. Not for the first time, she was struck by how versatile Omi's talents were. The basis of her power was starting fires, which destroyed things. Omi could not only sense the location of water, but control its flow, manipulate it as if with telekinesis, and purify it if he wanted to and had a few spare hours to deal with the resultant migraine. It was all a matter of separating the dirt from the water itself, he'd told her once, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

It wasn't like she could separate the flames from their fuel. True, she could influence the power at which fires could burn, forcing them to eat up anything in their path, or dousing them to a few embers, but it wasn't as _useful _as Omi's abilities – especially since the planet was something like 80 water. It took a conscious effort not to let jealousy flow through her veins when she compared herself to him.

"Sure was, lil' buddy," Clay agreed. "Whoo-wee, this place is hotter than a skillet fryin' eggs."

Omi nodded at the compliments, and looked expectantly at Raimundo, who huffed.

"Okay, I'll admit you're handy to have around."

True to Omi's prediction, they soon came across a medium-sized oasis fringed by ragged foliage and a rug of grass. Unfortunately, there were two camels, a few goats and a sizeable tent already pitched on the one side, behind a rash of shabby trees and undergrowth.

"Great," Raimundo sarcasmed. "_This _won't cause any tricky questions."

"Can I help it if the rest of the world isn't so accommodating to dragons as you guys?" Dojo retorted. "I know, I know, we don't have time to be answering tricky questions. Even though, nine times out of ten, the public adore me when they meet me. I'm just loveable that way."

"_Dojo_."

"But I'm also parched. Look, I'll land in that scrubby patch over there. Maybe they won't see us. There doesn't look like there's anyone around."

"Famous last words," Rai muttered.

They landed without mishap. Dojo resized and drained the water from all of his canteens, then lay back against a tree, overfull. The four Dragons sipped at their canteens slowly, pulling away their headgear now they were in the shade, and dabbing a little onto their foreheads and the backs of their necks to cool down.

When they were done, and didn't feel quite so bow-legged from riding around all day, they carried the wilting Dojo and their empty canteens through the measly undergrowth to the well in the centre of the oasis. Like the vegetation, it was a meagre affair, just a hole in the ground with a circle of bricks built around the edge to keep it from caving in on itself and burying the water supply. Far below, a natural spring bubbled, full of all the nutrients and salt they needed and had previously lost through sweating. In the desert, water wasn't just to quench your thirst.

Omi stretched out his hands and concentrated. His forehead bunched. "Water," he murmured, as if calling it to him.

Unhurriedly, a thin trickle rose up out of the well, snaking through the air, between the scrub, and into each of their unstoppered canteens.

"Your fine control's really improving," Dojo commented, impressed.

However, when all but the last canteen was full, there was a shout from the well.

"Uh oh," said Raimundo. "Bus-ted."

"We should go," said Kimiko, hoping she'd imagined the told-you-so tone in his voice. "We don't have time for meet n' greets."

They ran for the more open spot they'd landed in, where Dojo wouldn't accidentally destroy any precious plant life when his body expanded. The first voice that had shouted was joined by a second, and footsteps started to follow them.

"Quick!" Raimundo opened his hands like someone miming the opening of a flower. Immediately, a strong gust of wind swept from behind them, lifting their feet from the ground and giving them an extra burst of speed. It wasn't all that much, and Kimiko wondered whether he was just doing it out of competition with Omi. It annoyed her that he'd use a time like now to try to prove himself, but also made her feel better. She wasn't the only one with inadequacy issues.

When they hit their landing spot Dojo leapt backwards from Clay's arms and resized on the move. He ducked between their legs, like a small donkey reclaiming its rider without the need for stirrups.

"Tally-ho!"

They soared into the sky with an audible _whoosh_.

Behind and below them, two figures burst from the bushes. They were both children, though age was difficult to estimate since they both wore large indigo robes that covered their bronzed faces and fluttered as they ran. The taller of the two pointed at Dojo, and they braked suddenly. The smaller one yanked down her facemask, gawping shamelessly. Then she scowled and yelled something, stooping to scoop up a handful of sand and fling it in the direction of the four departing Xiaolin Dragons. There was no chance of it hitting them, so they could only suppose it was a symbolic gesture. The taller figure grabbed her wrist and dragged her backwards, shouting loudly.

"Idiot! Do not invite retribution!"

"Demons like that should stay on the Forbidden Ground where they belong!" she yelled back in an oddly formal manner of speech. "Go back to your sanctuary, devils! Leave us alone! Do not contaminate these pure sands with your presence!"

"Hush!" He shook her. "They might hear you."

"Let them hear me."

He slapped her hard across the cheek. "The Ground isn't far, you little fool! We're already too close without you throwing us to them. If they choose to punish you … "

In answer, she spat after them. That was even more symbolic, and much easier to understand.

The wind roared in Kimiko's ears and flung itself up her nose, as she scrabbled to put on her sunglasses and pull up her facemask without losing her grip.

"Well." Dojo slowed down when the oasis was little more than a speck. "That was certainly … attention-grabbing. And why am I running away? I'm ten times the size of those rude pipsqueaks."

"Because you're good and kind and wouldn't make another pass with your teeth bared just to scare the stones out of them," said Kimiko.

"Demons?" Raimundo repeated, miffed. He tugged at his burqua-thing, but gave up and put on his shades while it remained just a hood. "I could understand them calling _you_ that, Dojo, but there was a plural there. Which means us, too."

"I thought we were just in for pesky questions-an'-answer sessions, not bein' run off the property like common thieves." Clay looked over his shoulder, holding onto his hat to keep it from flying off. "They was madder than cats locked out in a gullywasher."

Omi looked particularly puzzled, and a bit hurt by the hostile treatment. His burqua-thing dangled around his neck. He hadn't even tried to put it back on. "We are not devils," he murmured. "We are heroes. Do those people not recognise the clothes of Xiaolin Apprentices?"

"Omi," Raimundo, at the head of the line, twisted himself to look at the little monk, "you've got to understand that the rest of the world isn't as clued-up about this Xiaolin stuff as we are. Or magic. You know most people think magic is just for Siegfreid and Roy, right?"

"Are this 'Siegfreid and Roy' sorcerers?"

"Kind of. But that's not the point. Remember Jermaine?"

"Jermaine is a good friend and ally."

"Yeah, but he was still clueless. He was just friendlier about it than those freaks." Rai turned to face forward again. "Weirdoes. I guess this means we're back on the trail, huh, Dojo?"

"Minus the backseat driving, yeah." Dojo sniffed and altered direction slightly. "Would you believe this little detour actually sent us in the right direction for the Shen Gong Wu?"

"So you know where it is now?"

"Kinda…"

"Ay, Dojo!"

"What! It's … it's muffled."

"Muffled?" Clay echoed.

"I can't think of a better way to describe it. It's like someone stuffed wet cotton wool up my nose and then told me to sniff the thing out."

Nobody had any answer to that, and they fell into a heavy silence.

"Demons," Raimundo mumbled. "After all we've done for the world, we get handed sunburns and freakazoids who've watched too many bad horror movies. Whatever happened to karma? Little chutzpahs."

"What are 'chutzpahs'?" Omi asked, carefully avoiding talk of karma and saving the world. Raimundo had proved himself reformed time and again, but he _had _once nearly brought about the end of civilisation. It was something that stood out on his résumé.

"Just something one of the clowns used to call me. It's not important."

Kimiko brought out her PDA and tapped at it with her stylus. She flipped from webpage to webpage, jumping search engines and dropping in on several message boards she'd visited before – the kind frequented only by people who not only believed in magic, but had experienced it firsthand and often studied it in great detail. She didn't always know how much to believe of what they told her when she asked questions, but they'd provided several useful links before, when she was researching the origins of some Shen Gong Wu they'd won. If knowledge was power, then she aimed to be as knowledgeable as she could about their arsenal.

"What are you doing, Kimiko?" Omi asked when she made a frustrated noise.

"Tch. I can't find any reference to 'Forbidden Ground' with a cross reference to Sahara Desert. It's a real ubiquitous phrase, I know, but I was still hoping there'd be _something_."

"Why would you want to?" Raimundo turned to look at her. Omi closed his mouth, undoubtedly about to ask the meaning of 'ubiquitous'.

"Because _some _of us don't like jumping into potentially dangerous situations without asking important questions first," she replied wearily. "And call me crazy, but 'Forbidden Ground' doesn't really sound like a primo vacation resort. If there's a Shen Gong Wu anywhere around here, anything with the word 'forbidden' in the title is just _bound _to be bad news. And it means it's general and nothing special, Omi."

Omi flushed with more than the heat. "Thank you, Kimiko."

"Not necessarily," Raimundo retorted. "It doesn't have to mean anything at all. Those kids were probably just crazy with the heat. Or it could be metaphorical. You know, like in those cartoons where they say 'next dimension' instead of dead and hell."

"Trust you to cite cartoons. Rai, when was the last time we heard an ominous reference when out hunting for Wu and it _didn't _mean something bad?"

"Um…"

"She's got you there, partner."

"Give me a second. I'll think of something."

But Clay just shook his head. "Us and the Shen Gong Wu, we attract trouble like an old bone attracts dogs."

"You don't have to sound so happy about it," Raimundo snapped.

"I'm just saying," shrugged Kimiko, "it'd be better to go into the search informed."

"Yeah, informed in _paranoia_."

"Hey!" Dojo silenced them all. "I am _trying _to concentrate here. The stereo arguing? Is something I can do without."

"Sorry, Dojo," each of them mumbled, with varying amounts of sincerity.

"Thank you. And I'd appreciate it if you'd all – whoa! Waaargh!"

The air in front of them shimmered as if with the heat, not unlike the air everywhere else they'd been in this sweltering place. Yet unlike a normal heat shimmer, this one shifted and moved as if alive when they flew into it. A mosaic of brief but beautiful coloured lights flared around them. Dojo convulsed, surprised but not able to check himself until he'd passed right through the strange, thin barrier.

Kimiko felt a pulling sensation on her whole body, like she was being drawn through a pocket of pressure dozens of times denser than the rest of the air around her. Her ears popped. Her pulse pounded loudly in her brain, tempo shifting as adrenaline automatically surged through her system. Her fingertips blanched; her grip on both Dojo and her PDA tightened.

Dojo stopped and hovered in mid-air, shaking his head. "Ooh, ow, what the heck was that thing?"

"I do not know, but I think that it is possibly connected to _that _thing." Omi pointed.

Sitting like a wedding cake in the middle of a huge tablecloth was an enormous … to say it was just a building was to use the word in its loosest possible sense. It dominated the landscape. Tall as a skyscraper and wider than the entire Xiaolin temple plus grounds, it was an uneasy tangle of architectural styles that jarred and fought with one another. Nothing matched. Neither did anything match its surroundings. Bizarre pinnacles and turrets spiked from the roof, their rusted points gleaming faintly in the sun. Windows of dark glass were haphazardly dotted around, as though someone had flung a handful of drawing pins at the blueprints and installed them where they landed. Small, adobe-like huts nestled against part of the front wall, the centre of which held a medieval drawbridge with no moat. One side of the building looked like gigantic staircase of an Aztec temple, while the other was a mishmash of Spanish villa, Victorian country manor and Georgian townhouse.

It was impossible to say when and where the ugly place had been built. Random eras from random countries featured in its design, the overall effect being a thing out of time. It was almost like some bored god had plucked hundreds of magnificent buildings from space and time, disassembled, and then reassembled them in a manner suggesting it knew about walls and ceilings and foundations, but didn't really know what order they went in. Fortress was the only word that _could _describe it. It was huge and looming and extravagant.

And it most definitely hadn't been there before.

"Holy guacamole," said Dojo. "I'm not sure whether I hope you're right, kid."

"It's … have you ever seen anything like it before?" Kimiko breathed. She could see the curled eaves of a traditional Japanese house in there, and growing at an odd angle from one turret was a red torii; the painted red arch found outside Shinto shrines.

"Now that right there is some mighty mixed-up home-improvements." Clay tipped his hat back a little in order to see. "Is that a _barn _there at the bottom?"

"Who cares? I want to know where the heck it came from. And what that weirdo lightshow was. I – uh, Dojo?" Raimundo patted the dragon's neck.

"Yeah?"

"Your tail, dude."

They all turned. The end of Dojo's tail glimmered, frissions of coloured lights coalescing around it like fireflies. The tip was unaffected, as though sitting underwater while the lights, like oil or creosote, danced on the surface. Instinctively, Dojo flicked his tail, pulling it away and under him. The lights flickered and died with nothing to bounce off. They seemed to be concentrated in that area.

"Did that hurt, leaving it there?" Kimiko asked.

"Not really. It fuzzed my head up good when _that _went through, but I didn't even notice my tail was still in it." Dojo spent a moment examining himself, patting his body and tugging at his tail to make sure everything was still okay. "Seems right enough." He peered closer and yanked sharply. "Is that a … _grey hair_? Quick, look, does that look grey to you?"

"Dude, vain much?"

"Could you dip your tail again, Dojo?" Kimiko asked.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Leaving aside the fact you all ignored my question; though I'm all for scientific discovery, I'd rather not play lab rat."

"_Dojo_, this might be _important_. And it didn't hurt any of us when _we _went through it."

"Not yet. Hey, you don't get to be my age by taking stupid chances. You get grey hairs by taking stupid chances." He waved the hair at her. It was thick as a piece of string and longer than her whole body. "I had no grey hairs before I started taking you kids places!"

"_Dojo_." She batted her eyelids winsomely. "Grey hairs aren't a bad thing. They make you look distinguished."

"I oughta – they do?"

"Mm-hm. Like those old tapestries and paintings people travel hundreds of miles to take pictures of."

"You mean those paintings of knights _slaying _dragons."

"Um … okay, bad example. Um … pleeeeease will you dip your tail again?"

He wavered. "I don't know…"

"Pretty please? I'll make you some of my special Teriyaki when we get home." He loved Teriyaki when she made it. For his birthday she'd spent hours preparing a huge spread, with bowl upon bowl of the spicy food – all of which vanished within ten minutes of him laying eyes on it.

Dojo's stomach launched a campaign against his brain. It was obvious to see in his face. Brain seemed to wage a powerful counter-strike, however, and the battle turned in its favour. It was ridiculous, exposing yourself to magic when you had absolutely no idea what it was or what it might do to you. But he _had _passed through it before, and everything seemed fine. And they had several Shen Gong Wu with them, should anything go wrong; plus he could always just fly away. Speaking of Shen Gong Wu, the Saladin Shield was supposed to be their top priority –

"Dude, you scared?" Raimundo prodded.

Dojo sighed. "That's not going to work on me, kid. After 1500 years, I've had a little practice with basic reverse psychology."

"That's _so_ something you'd only say if you were too scared to do it."

"I am not afraid," Omi declared. "I am a courageous Xiaolin warrior. _I_ shall touch the strange lights. Dojo, if you would kindly deposit me over there, please - "

"Oh, for crying out loud." Faced with the heroic stupidity of adolescence, Dojo grudgingly brushed the end of his tail against the same spot it had been before.

Immediately, a flash of brilliant colour erupted. It was a thin sort of sheen, again like oil on the surface of water. Once his tail had passed through it, there was nothing to distinguish the air on the other side from the air they now breathed. He waved his tail back and forth. The lights followed.

"Some sort of barrier?" Kimiko mused. "Or … or a screen."

"For what? We're in the middle of the desert." Clay frowned thoughtfully.

Raimundo pointed at the building. "That seems like a pretty good candidate."

"But what's it for?"

"The building or the lightshow?"

"Perhaps the strange lights are why we did not see this house before," Omi suggested. "Perhaps they were hiding it."

Rai snorted. "Some _house_. I'd hate to deliver newspapers to this place."

"There _are_ spells that can do that. I saw Dashi cast a couple while I travelled with him. They were pretty easy, although they weren't very strong." Dojo pulled his tail out again. Then he looked up. "At least it lets you get _out _again. What's the betting that if we couldn't see it on the approach, we couldn't see it from the sky, either? There's no point in casting a wall in a place like this. I'm thinking more dome, or box, or other useful three-dimensional shape." For a second he sounded wistful, as he remembered a time long ago, when he was young and impetuous, before he took up his lifelong post at the temple. "Dashi used to like domes."

"But why hide it? Other than it being a total crime against good taste, and liable to make anyone toss their cookies if they stare at it for too long. " Kimiko frowned. "Which seem like really good reasons until you think about it. I don't know all that much about creating magical barriers, but it's, like, total overkill for just a particularly heinous fashion nasty. Right? And who's going to see it in the middle of the desert, anyway?"

"Who cares? It's not like we haven't seen weirder stuff than this before." Raimundo linked his hands behind his head. "Every time we showdown, in fact."

Omi crawled forward on his hands and knees. "All good questions. But first, Dojo my friend, could you please pass through the lights again so that we may test my insightful theory?"

"You kids, you think I'm just here for your convenience. We're supposed to be looking for … looking for …" Dojo's eyes glazed. His nostrils flared. "Oh _baby_…"

"Dojo?"

It was like a curtain being drawn back to reveal bright morning sunshine after a dark night. Dojo lifted his head and closed his eyes, feeling the warm air currents bring him the scent. He hadn't really been scenting before, but _now_… "You remember I told you kids the Shen Gong Wu was muffled?"

"Yeah," Clay drawled, uncertain.

"Well, someone removed the cotton wool. I just got a powerful whiff of that puppy. It's close. It's so close I can practically _taste _it. It's…" He opened his eyes and fixed them on the fortress. "It's in there."

"Witness my surprise," Raimundo sighed.

"Kimiko," Omi turned to her, "could the ground around this unattractive residence be the Forbidden Ground that provided you and your contraption with such frustration?"

"Hmm, let me think. Weird, almost certainly magical barrier around it, rendering it invisible until a few minutes ago, Shen Gong Wu on special offer, practically _impossible_ design – there is no way that thing should be able to stand up, let alone be here in the middle of the _desert_. Plus, those rude kids said we were close to the Forbidden Ground. And this is close. And creepy. And has a 'forbidden' vibe, what with the whole invisibility and major unattractiveness thing. I'm going to go with an affirmative."

"This place reeks of magic," Dojo informed them. "Though that might be all the damage the sand did to my sinuses."

"So … what now?" Raimundo gestured at the building. "Do we just charge in there and grab the Wu, or do we ring the bell and ask nice?"

"If we all could _find _the bell," said Clay. "An' am I the only one wonderin' what kinda person would live in a place like that?"

"Good point, friend Clay." Omi nodded sagely. "That is a most perplexing thought. For to construct a house like this, one would have to be a most powerful magician. And possibly a few bread rolls short of a picnic basket."

Raimundo looked shocked. "I don't believe it. That one was actually semi-decent. That's it. The apocalypse is nigh, dudes."

"Your clever remarks are most unwelcome, Raimundo. You would be better employed discovering the nature and solution to our predicament."

"What're you looking at me for? I haven't got any idea what that place is doing here. But if the Saladin Shield is in there, then I say we march in and _get _it before Jack Spicer or some other loser bent on world domination turns up. If they haven't already been and taken it."

Dojo shook his head. "Nope, the Shield's still close by. I can feel it." He wriggled his fingers like he really could sift through the sensation of _nearness _he'd never fully been able to describe to anyone when they asked.

Omi sat up straighter. "Yes! Jack Spicer, I had momentarily forgotten. We must not lose sight of our goal: keeping the Shen Gong Wu from the mittens of evil!"

"That's hands, dude. And so the day of reckoning is once again diverted."

"Most. Unwelcome."

"Can we please get on with this? My scales are baking," said Dojo.

Kimiko looked dubiously at the heat shimmer that wasn't really a heat shimmer. It unnerved her. They'd come across magical types before in their quest for the Shen Gong Wu, and most of them had been friendly enough. There was no need to assume that just because this place was shielded from the naked eye meant its occupant – if there even _was_ an occupant – was working for the side of evil. After all, they'd been sitting up here in plain view for several minutes and nobody had made any move against them – and they were pretty hard to _miss_. It could be they'd just happened upon an oddball hermit.

_An exceptionally oddball hermit_, she amended, the thought not unbefitting of the situation. There was a hermit who lived in the valleys not far from the Xiaolin temple; a nameless old codger who trapped his food, could literally talk to squirrels, and spent warm Summer evenings communing with nature in the buff outside his cave. His magic was limited to the squirrel thing, and Master Fung said he was harmless. He rarely came near the temple. The only reason Kimiko and the boys knew he existed was because his best squirrel-friend was Omi's personal nightmare – the one Jack Spicer had made real with the Shadow of Fear.

So, the fortress could be a bad thing. But it could also be a good thing, or even a neutral thing. If there was one thing Master Fung had drilled into them – aside from the importance of retrieving the Shen Gong Wu – it was that magic was like any traditional weapon: it wasn't inherently good or evil, but depended on the nature of the person who wielded it.

_I should be positive_, she thought. _Upbeat. Optimistic. Yeah. _

Still, a knot of unease sat in the pit of her stomach.

"Let's vote," Clay proposed. "All those in favour of goin' in for the Shen Gong Wu now, raise your right hand."

He, Omi, Dojo and Raimundo all raised their hands. Tentatively, Kimiko did the same.

"It's unanimous, then." Dojo clicked his teeth together and sailed towards the fortress. "Reckon I should knock?"

"Aw, can't we just sneak in?" Raimundo griped. "I'm good at sneaking. I sneak like a pro."

"Excuse me if the evidence so far tells _me _we should try a more direct approach," said Kimiko. Then she shrugged. _Think positive_. "Who knows? Maybe if we're really polite, the people slash person who lives here might just _give _us the Shield."

"That would be most favourable," said Omi.

"So I knock?" asked Dojo. "'Cause if I'm knocking I need to pick a door."

There were an abundance of them. The largest was the drawbridge, but there were several other doors tucked away in corners and behind walls, some so small nobody but young children could have passed through them (and possibly Omi).

"I think it'd be better if _we_ knocked, Dojo." Kimiko chose her words carefully. "No offence, but if we're going for a diplomatic approach, then we need to look as non-threatening as possible for our first impression."

"Gotcha. One shrinkage, coming up."

He landed a good twenty feet from the drawbridge and took up his shoulder-sized form. Clay obliged as a perch. His shoulders were broad and strong, perfect for carrying an extra passenger.

"Hey, look at me. I'm an adorable, completely non-threatening gecko. Great with children and pets. Chirp chirp."

"Geckos chirp?" asked Raimundo as they walked towards the fortress.

"Well what kind of noise did you think they made? Arf? Meow? Tweet tweet?"

He shrugged, hands in his pockets, the picture of a moody teenage boy. "Whatever. Like the guy who made _this _place is gonna be scared by _you_."

Dojo opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. A rusty screech, like a clap of thunder, burst into the air. The four Dragons stopped in their tracks.

Kimiko looked all around in the manner of an owl rotating its head. Her parasol hat wobbled. "What the heck was that?"

As if in answer, the noise came again. It sounded like a collection of pots and pans being dropped onto a stone floor from a great height, with a little un-oiled gearbox and thrown in for good measure. A thousand children scraped bows across violins in the name of practice, while a thousand dogs wailed and noisily tried to gnaw off their own legs. The racket radiated from the fortress – though the building was so haphazard it was impossible to pinpoint the exact _source _within the seething mass of bricks, tiles and corners.

_Who are you?_

The question wasn't asked. It just arrived in her head.

Kimiko's eyes widened like saucers. "Did … everybody else just hear that?"

"If that don't beat all," Clay whispered. "That felt weirder than wearin' extra thermals in a heatwave."

"I was thinking it felt more like the Mind-Reader Conch," Dojo put in, rubbing at the side of his head like it would help.

"That too."

_What is your purpose here?_

Kimiko felt a buzzing, like a fly trapped inside her inner ear. "You all heard that one too, right?"

"Loud and clear." Raimundo looked up at the turrets and uneven bits of roof. "Either someone in there is talking to us in our heads, or else … nah."

He was right. Nah. It was impossible. Kimiko knew it was impossible. It was just an old building. An incredibly bizarre, somewhat eerie old building, but still just stone and mortar and other building-y stuff. Mostly.

The shrill screech came again, making them jump. This time it sounded more like slamming doors, crumbling stonework and the ancient creaky floorboards of attics.

_Who are you? What is your purpose here?_

It was impossible, but …

"I am most puzzled, for I believe the building is talking to us," Omi ventured.

"I think you're right, short stuff." Dojo didn't look too thrilled at the idea.

_Who are you? _The question came again. There was no inflection or sign of irritation at repeating itself. It was as if reality just kept shifting around them so that they knew the question _had _been asked without having the actual memory of what it had sounded like. _What is your purpose here?_

Omi cleared his throat. He was always the plucky one. "We are the Xiaolin Dragons-in-training," he said, bowing and using their full, technically more correct titles. "We are here seeking the Shen Gong Wu known as the Saladin Shield. We have been told it is … inside you," he finished tentatively. How not to insult a house had never featured in any of their training sessions.

The noise cut off abruptly.

Raimundo leaned over, not taking his eyes off a small porthole near the roof. "Dude, I think you broke it."

Omi didn't look worried, but it was a schooled expression. His shoulders were a lot tenser than they'd been five seconds ago. "I did not mean to - "

A smaller door cut into the drawbridge creaked open. It was vertically hinged, at least three times the height of Clay and wide enough for a chariot to fit through. It swung inward onto a gloomy interior.

"Does this mean 'enter, friends'?" Dojo smiled his best smile.

No answer.

"Well, it means enter, at least." Kimiko swallowed. Her mouth felt very dry, but for some inexplicable reason she didn't want to bring out her canteen. "I think."

Omi started forward. "Come, my friends. We must find the Shen Gong Wu and return with it to Master Fung."

"Y'all make it sound so darn easy." Clay wiped sweat from his forehead and followed. "C'mon, guys. Sooner we go in, sooner we can go home."

* * *

_To Be Continued… _

* * *


	3. Somewhat Geographically Challenged

**A/N: **This chapter owes quite a bit to _The Gatekeeper Trilogy _by Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder, and a little less (as in, one line) to _Mort _by Terry Pratchett.

* * *

**3: Somewhat Geographically Challenged **

* * *

"You are a complete and utter imbecile!"

"And y_ou _are not helping!"

Jack Spicer was a genius. It was a well-publicised and easily proven fact. You just had to glance around his lab to see the products of his exceptional mind, some of which would have gone a long way to improving the world, were he not as devoted to evil as he was to his own brilliance. Before he was even legally allowed to drink he had created semi-autonomous robots, high-tech laser weaponry, a number of ultra-modern explosives, and a machine that automatically dressed him in the mornings. He had experimented with zero gravity transportation, built vehicles that could travel to the bottom of the sea _and_ the top of a mountain, and even conceived a way to travel through time. He had also figured out a way to open a 1500-year-old puzzle box, released the ghost of a powerful witch, hunted for, won and lost more magical items than his father had owned cars, and set about a campaign of global domination that doesn't hit most would-be dictators until they're at least out of puberty.

None of this helped him right now, however. And he would happily have given all the evil schemes in his impressive history for a sunhat, a tub of motor oil and a tall glass of cool lemonade.

"You idiot! You cretin! You absolute nincompoop!"

Oh yeah, and a nice big bung. Preferably one that worked on ghosts.

"Hey!" Jack snapped. "It's not my fault the engine got clogged. How was I supposed to factor this much sand into our travel schedule?"

"Jack," Wuya's voice dropped to a disgusted monotone, "we're in a _desert_. What did you think you were going to find here – pudding?"

"Yeah … well … nya!" He stuck out his tongue and went back under the hovercar's hood.

Wuya floated about irritably, completely useless and cursing that fact. She had once been the most fearsome threat to free will the world had ever known. Now she was little more than an intelligent dustbunny. Her own helplessness was a constant bone in her gullet – except that she didn't even have a gullet anymore, which was the whole point! Her un-life was a vicious circle, and never had the phrase been better applied.

"Why do I even bother with you?" She folded her tendrils and imagined one of her delicate human feet kicking Jack's backside. The image of him tumbling headfirst into his hovercar, and her then shutting the bonnet was an appealing one. Just because he was currently her best chance of getting her body back didn't mean she had to like him. Or appreciate him. Or anything else mushy and … and Xiaolin-Dragon-like.

The thought brought a fresh wave of irritation. "You do realise that while we're baking here, Omi and the other Xiaolin Dragons are probably fetching the Saladin Shield and returning home with it."

"So we'll steal it from them. Big whoop."

"You couldn't steal a cold from a pneumonia victim," Wuya muttered.

"Anyway, why do you even care about the heat?" Jack raised his head. There was a smudge of grease on his nose and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "You can't even feel it, you're all ghostly and junk."

"I do not need the reminder, Jack. Just get on with your repairs and let's go. I can feel the Shen Gong Wu." In truth, the feeling was faint, but it was still unmistakable, and she'd never tell Jack she was anything less than sure of its location. Otherwise he might get uppity ideas about making another detectobot, and much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. Jack was the only person – at present – who would do as she said and at least make the pretence of a promise to get her body back. Her brief stint as flesh and blood had whetted her appetite to be free of her wraithlike form, and she would use any means possible to regain what she had lost. To do that, she had to make him think he needed her as much as she needed him. It was demeaning, but it was necessary. "It's not far from here."

"Fine, fine. Just give me a minute to – nggh – fix this. Nggh!" Jack struggled with a particularly tough bolt. It flew off suddenly, passing straight through Wuya and landing somewhere in the endless sand. Jack also flew backwards, onto his rear, the wrench soaring away to landing spot unknown. "Aw, crud."

Wuya bared her teeth. Sometimes 'necessary' made her want to kill things.

* * *

The door slammed shut behind them.

"Whoa, Nelly! That startled me more than a bull's hoof to my butt."

"Well this is … dark. Kimiko, can we get some light in here?"

"Fire!" A fountain of flame shot up from Kimiko's hand. Raimundo, standing next to her without realising it, leaped away. After forcing her excessive outburst under control, she grinned at him over the flicker of her upturned palm. "Your wish is my command."

He made a show of checking himself for singe-marks. "My wish is to stay flame-free. Think you can handle that?"

Omi inspected the door. "There is no handle. We cannot get out."

"Maybe not that way." Raimundo flourished his hands. "If we really need to, we can _make _a door, dude."

Kimiko half expected a low rumble to shake the ceiling at the threat, but nothing happened. She shivered. "Hey, it's a lot cooler in here than it was out there."

Raimundo pulled down his hood so that it sat around his neck like a snood, took off his sunglasses and blinked. The air smelled dank in a way that reminded them more of the Shen Gong Wu vault than a desert. "Magic?"

"Maybe." She looked around at the deep recesses of shadow. A long, roomy stone corridor stretched off ahead of them, curving around a corner that bounced back the light of her flames. The floor was even, but made of hard-packed earth, flat from being walked over. "Maybe not."

"Looks like that's the only way in," said Clay, coming to stand next to her.

"I guess so."

"Then we should take it," Omi said decisively. "Dojo?"

Dojo looked down from Clay's shoulder. His eyes were better than humans' in dim light, but not by much. He squinted at the little monk. "Yeah, kid?"

"Can you sense the Shen Gong Wu?"

He sniffed. "Absotively. That-a-way." He pointed down the corridor.

"Then that is the way we shall go." Omi marched off, assuming they would follow. Which they did.

The corridor went on for far longer than they expected – at least without hitting any rooms or side-passages. It twisted around several corners, and then listed downwards so that they were walking on a slight slope. The walls became progressively cooler to the touch, until they were actually cold and the air just plain damp rather than humid.

"This is weird," Kimiko said at last. "I feel like we've been walking for hours." She checked the clock on her PDA, thankful she'd left it as a screensaver. Pressing buttons needed both hands. It was still set to the time of the Xiaolin Temple, but it told her how long they'd been walking. "Only thirty-five minutes?"

"Pretty impressive for a front hall," Raimundo observed.

A different smell sprang up after the next corner, indicating the musty corridor was coming to an end. They sped up, coming out into a spacious, if bare hexagonal room. The walls and floor were made of pale stone blocks, each one the size of Omi's head. The ceiling, however, was made of dark blue glass sprinkled with what looked like chips of silica, which were placed everywhere to form an image not unlike a clear night sky. There wasn't a stick of furniture anywhere, and neither were there any doors. The only entrance was the one they'd come through. It felt like an elaborate prison cell.

"Man, this is whack." Raimundo walked around the edge of the room in disgust. "We come all this way and we get a dead end?"

"Perhaps there is a secret door," Omi suggested, pushing at several huge stones. He stood on tiptoe to try more, inviting his friends to join him. "Perhaps it is that we are to find our way into the remainings of this place, since the Saladin Shield is clearly not here."

Raimundo looked unimpressed, but shrugged and started jabbing at stones too. "Not like I got any better ideas. Just so long as no Indiana Jones booby-traps go off in my face."

Soon they were all pushing and shoving, while Dojo sat in the centre of the room, sniffing. He twisted his head this way and that, trying to ascertain the exact location of the Shen Gong Wu beyond the walls.

"Can't you just collapse a wall or something, Clay?" Raimundo asked, wiping a dribble of perspiration from where it had run onto his eyelid. "That'd be easier than all this searching. Especially since we might not even find anything."

Clay shook his head. "Don't know what's on the other side of these puppies. Might bury someone, or sumthin' important by accident."

Raimundo grumbled, but kept looking. Sometimes he rapped his knuckles against a stone and called, asking if there was anyone on the other side. He never got any answer, and the timbre of the taps never changed.

"I do not understand, Dojo," Omi said after several fruitless minutes. "Why did you hide the Saladin Shield in such a challenging place? Is it that powerful?"

"Not that I recall. But 1500 years is a long, time, kid. Things change. Hiding-places change. Shen Gong Wu stay young looking, but they get moved. They get sold. They get discarded, given to thrift stores, or put in pawnshop windows. I just guard the scroll; I can't keep my eyes on each and every item for fifteen centuries. And I don't know diddly about this joint."

"Well that makes us feel a whole lot better," said Raimundo, standing on tiptoe to push against a stone high in the wall. It shifted. "Hey, guys, I think I got a winner over here."

"I knew it!" Omi said triumphantly.

"Yeah, yeah, you're wonderful, dude. Now someone help me push."

As the tallest, Clay went to stand beside him and reached up to press on the stone. It exhaled a breath of dust, but no secret door opened. Gamely, the two boys pushed harder, forcing the block backwards in its space. It made a heavy grinding noise as it went, spitting dirt into their faces. Dojo spluttered and took refuge under Clay's hat.

"I don't think that's the key to any hidden door," Kimiko concluded with a shake of her head. "Just a loose stone."

Omi looked crestfallen. "I had thought magical places were full of secret passageways and hidden doors. I was mistaken. I am sorry, my friends. It would appear we are dead at the end once again."

"That's 'at a dead end', Omi," Raimundo grunted, spluttering under a film of white dust. The loose stone finally refused to move any further, and both he and Clay were forced to give up. "Weak, dudes."

"It appears quite strong to me," Omi remarked. "I believe that is the problem."

"We didn't pass any doors or passageways. It seems stupid to have a hallway that just ends without going anywhere." Kimiko frowned. "It doesn't make sense. We _know _this place is bigger than this. We _saw _it from outside."

"Since when has anything magical ever had to make sense?" Raimundo sneezed. "Oh, man, I think I broke my brain with that one."

"Wouldn't be difficult." Kimiko could not resist the snipe. It was too easy.

He scowled at her. "At least I'm not just standing around like some fat-butted know-it-all. I just busted _my _butt trying to move that stone. I didn't see you helping." He sneezed again, then bolted upright, holding his mouth. "Yow, my thongue! I think I bith ith right off!"

"Figures." Kimiko rolled her eyes.

"Figuth what?" He worked his jaw, rubbing either side with his fingertips.

"We've run out of railroad and you're bitching again."

She was frustrated, and frustration made her irritable and snippy. Actually, a whole lot of things made her irritable but right now frustration was doing a bang-up job. The 'fat-butted' comment made her blood boil, too. She was fashion-conscious, true, but body image had never really been an issue for Kimiko. She'd always worked out regularly, and after coming to the Xiaolin Temple she knew she was in better shape than she'd ever been in her life. Even when she felt like she'd lost her edge she was better than she'd been when her daily schedule included school, mall-crawling and being polite at Mommy's posh dinners. Still, she was nonetheless susceptible to the sting of the slippery eel of self-esteem that is always alert on the seabed of most women's perceptions of themselves. In her old school she'd seen girls fall to anorexia, bulimia and other eating disorders through flippant comments about their weight. People like Raimundo, who may not mean to hurt feelings but didn't _think_ about what they said before they said it, made her want to punch things.

"Practically all you've done on this mission is bitch and complain. If we ever actually _find _the Saladin Shield, you should just leave getting it to the rest of us. You can stand on the sidelines and criticise. It's what you do best."

Raimundo's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You saying you don't trust me to get it?" Trust was his Achilles Heel, and he was incredibly sensitive about it.

For once, however, Kimiko hadn't been aiming for it. "No, I'm saying I'm sick of your whining."

"Oh yeah? Well I – aaah, my ears!"

"What in the name of Mike -?"

The fortress was screaming again, but there was a new pitch this time. A hellish mix of shrieks rose and fell in a mad, frenzied chorus, the sound seeping from the walls like blood in a horror movie. It was horrible: the splintering of wood and the grinding of stone, the screeching of nails being torn from old timber. Doors slammed, glass shattered, sound rippled along the skin like a razor wrapped in silk.

It was ridiculous, but the place sounded in agony.

"Tarnation!" Clay grabbed his hat and tried to stuff the brim into his ears.

"What is happening?" Omi yelled, trying the same tactic with his fingertips.

The dust at their feet began to swirl, like the beginnings of a tornado. As the terrible noise grew louder, this sourceless wind picked up, tugging at the Dragons' hair and clothes. Omi lost his grip of his headdress and it went fluttering towards the ceiling.

Kimiko looked up and immediately wished she hadn't. "Oh my … _run_!" she shouted, dashing for the corridor they'd come in by.

The glass ceiling had become a free-falling canopy of comets and stars. Thick mist spiralled down from it, all semblance of solidness gone, replaced instead by a nebulous mass of shadow and condensed darkness. As the wind strengthened, this darkness seemed to get even darker, the mist fuller, undulating as though alive. Tendrils snaked down towards them like vines or the arms of drowning women.

Omi, the lightest, was the first to lose his footing. He was swifter and more agile than a gazelle, but he couldn't push against an air current. Impossibly, it plucked him from the floor and sucked him up.

Raimundo braked and threw out his hands. "Wind!" he shouted, attempting to gain control of the gale. Had he more time he might have reached for the Sword of the Storm tied to his back. They had each brought one Shen Gong Wu, and, as usually, he had chosen the item best suited to his element.

For a second it seemed to be working. Omi began to fall, gathering his legs under him to absorb the impact of landing. Then, with a howl, the wind redoubled in force and both he and Raimundo were sucked into it like dandelion seeds into a garden-vacuum.

Kimiko hung onto the corner of the corridor, but dust drove into her eyes, making them stream. She only blearily saw Omi and Raimundo disappear into the mist on the ceiling. She felt her grip slipping, couldn't see enough to stop it, and flew backwards with a painful scrape of fingernails. Clay was already in the air, hands clamped over his head to keep his hat – and Dojo – from flying free.

Were there more time Dojo might have resized and tried to save them. As it was, in under a minute all four Dragons had been inhaled by the wind and mist, thrown upwards and bounced against the walls of the room as they went.

It seemed to go on and upwards forever – far further than they had been able to see from the ground. Mist filled their vision, forcing itself into their ears, their noses and their mouths. It tasted like the dead air of a room that has been sealed shut for a long time; like attics full of memories and mouse droppings, disturbed by the forceful opening of a door or window.

Kimiko wrapped her hands around the back of her neck to try and protect her spine as she'd been taught, but her ascent was too slapdash. After bouncing and scraping and generally been thrown about like a sack of potatoes in the back of a pickup, her head slammed into something solid and the whole world faded to black.

* * *

There was a small, dark stone room, lit only by braziers of smouldering incense and a single candle of red wax. In it, a figure sat in quiet meditation.

When the floor trembled and the walls shook, the figure opened its eyes and whispered something in a language the rest of the world believed long dead. Immediately the shuddering altered slightly, becoming like frightened shivers, and a faint whisper twirled through the smoke.

"_We are the Xiaolin Dragons-in-training. We are here seeking the Shen Gong Wu known as the Saladin Shield. We have been told it is … inside you."_

The figure frowned slightly. Then it nodded and stood up, speaking another string of ancient words.

The shuddering cut off with a strangled yelp like the snap of a lock.

The figure walked from the room, down an incongruous corridor of oak panelling. It moved with a kind of liquid grace, muscles rippling like cables under bare skin. When it reached a door marked with red paint it stopped and turned the handle of a room lined with stacks upon stacks of old-fashioned weaponry. Spears, swords, daggers, crossbows, pikes, javelins and hundreds of different knives gleamed dully in the poor light given off by another red wax candle. A vicious-looking rapier dangled from the ceiling on a leather thong, and next to it hung a gleaming bronze scoop, made to fit over a clenched fist and dig into a man's belly to pull out his insides. Everything was deadly, but archaic, like a specialised display in a museum. There wasn't a gun or other modern weapon to be seen.

The figure ignored everything and nodded a greeting at a small, squat man. He was sat in a chair by a table littered with arrowheads and bowstrings. In his hands was a gobbet of hardened resin.

"The house is nervy," he said in a voice like a dump truck spilling out gravel. "Real jittery today. Made me drop my workings, it did. Glad to see you got it under control."

"We have visitors."

He blinked in amazement. "Outside?" he whispered, as though unable to believe the idea.

"I ordered it to let them in. They claim to be looking for the Prize." The capital letter was as obvious as the quirk of upturned lips. "One of them knew its real name."

"You're gonna test them?"

"I shall test whomever _finds _it. If they are able to survive the house, then they are worthy of my attentions." The figure looked up, as if through the low ceiling to the sky outside. "The stars are nearly in alignment. I knew it would be soon. Our Lord planned everything in great detail, and left instructions for the worthy. Are _you _worthy, Brother Jinman?"

The squat man slid off his chair. "Just tell me what you need, my Champion."

* * *

Raimundo didn't land on the floor. It was just abruptly _there_ underfoot, like an airfield that had manoeuvred itself under a Boeing 747 to save the pilot all the bother of touching down. One second he was shooting upwards and using his powers to try and keep himself from becoming a pulpy mess on the walls, the next he was dropping gently to a floor that should have been way further below him than it turned out to be.

"That's it," he wheezed when his breath returned. His tongue was still sore and he felt like the last turkey in the chilled aisle on Christmas Eve. "I officially hate this place."

There was no reply.

He straightened up. "Guys?"

He was in another passageway, this one made of redbrick, with a curved roof and a river of brackish water running past him. He stood on a narrow ledge, one of two running either side of the water. The ceiling was lined with metal pipes encrusted with lichen, and the air smelled foetid.

"Aw, great," he muttered, looking around.

He was alone. The mist thingy had obviously transported him someplace, much like the Golden Tiger Claws, separating him from the others in the process. He had no idea where he was in relation to where they'd been, though he thought he was still in the fortress somewhere. Or maybe below it. The air was foul, but something about it tasted like the air in that tripped out hexagonal room – a vaguely metallic undertone. He'd dismissed it before, but now he wondered if there mightn't be more to it.

"Guys?" he tried once more, listening for a reply.

Nothing.

"Great. Why did I have to be the one to end up in a sewer?"

The portal or whatever that had brought him here was gone without trace. He searched for a few minutes, patting the walls and shaking his hands free of gunk that he didn't even want to _know _about. His sixth sense wasn't anything like Dojo's, or Master Fung's, but it had improved a lot since he got his powers and went to the Xiaolin Temple. Now it was telling him that it couldn't perceive a blind thing.

There didn't seem to be much else for it. The Sword of the Storm wasn't going to be much use here, though he drew it and held it in front of him, just in case. Having little other option that he could see, he decided to follow the sewer and hope that it came out somewhere more pleasant – and maybe somewhere he could better search for his friends. Small halogen striplights were placed at intervals in the ceiling, but the sewer was still quite dark.

Breathing through his mouth, he grimly walked the walk.

* * *

"Where in Creation did that whatever-it-was land us?"

Dojo peeped out from under Clay's hat. His brain felt like a fruit machine pinging to a halt, and it took a moment to focus. "Groo … whut?"

"That warm patch on top of my head better not be what I think it is," Clay warned, remembering Jack Spicer's treatment of his poor hat when they escaped from Wuya.

"It's not," Dojo assured him. "Oh, my aching sacroiliac. Where are we?"

"Just what I was wonderin'."

He looked around. "If I didn't know better, I'd say some fancy finishing school, or something from those Merchant Ivory movies."

The corridor was beautiful, if antiquated, full of intricately carved wooden panelling, wine-red wallpaper and plush carpet. At alternating points on either side were oak doors and recesses holding elaborate candelabras in wrought iron wall-brackets. Clay studied the incredible woodwork as he walked along, once or twice coming across windows that brought in bright sunshine. He looked out of one. They looked about two stories up, though the glass was cloudy so it was difficult to tell.

"Reckon we all got split up from the others. Can't raise any of 'em by callin'. Wish I knew what the hoo-haa happened."

"Transport spell," Dojo asserted, combing back his scales. "I've seen it done hundreds of times."

"Really?"

"Well, maybe not _hundreds_, but enough times to know what one looks like."

"Dojo…"

"Really."

Clay stopped walking.

"Oh, all right. I saw it once, but I remember it like it was yesterday."

"Uh-huh. An' when 'zactly _did_ y'all see it done?"

Dojo looked sheepish. "About seven hundred years ago, give or take a decade."

"Right." Clay nodded and said nothing more. He rolled his shoulder a little where he'd bruised it when he fell out of the air, moving off and calling his friends' names.

The corridor was too quiet. While he had no desire for more unearthly screaming, it was unnatural to have a place like this and it be _completely _silent. There wasn't even a creak of settling floorboards. Clay had been in plenty of old houses, and if they had wood, they creaked. It was a law of the universe.

After several minutes he leaned up against a wall and sighed. He stayed there for a while, hoping against hope that something would happen; that Omi, Raimundo or Kimiko would suddenly appear, maybe fall right through the ceiling and onto the carpet next to him.

No such luck.

Clay didn't scare easy. He had long adopted the stance that one should accept life's problems with good grace, figuring out how to conquer them with a smile and a polite word. He knew it exasperated Kimiko, and to a lesser extent Raimundo. They just couldn't understand how he could go so far without getting riled at stuff. Omi had once asked him why he didn't get angry, and Clay had tried to explain.

The trouble was that they didn't realise he could and did get riled sometimes; it just took a lot more to make him snap. He didn't fly into a rage at the drop of a hat, though Raimundo's pranks had often pushed him to his limits. It took something _more_. Clay wasn't passive, but he wasn't one of those people who saw passivity as weakness and thought they should always be doing something active. Sometimes, he'd told Omi, you just had to let things wash over you; and maybe they'd wash your troubles away, too.

Concern for his friends and family? That was a worry-inducing situation. Though he'd grunt and grumble rather than admit it, Clay was like a Mother Bear to their little group, providing calm where there was none and dousing his adoptive family unit with protectiveness until they were sodden. He liked to know they were safe, and devoted a large portion of his training to defensive strategies. Getting separated like this made him edgy – or as edgy as he ever got.

Dojo crawled out from under his hat again and looked around. "Swish. Anything shaking, cowboy?"

"Nope. Place is emptier than an empty waterin' hole in a drought."

"Not good."

"You said it." Clay pushed off from the wall. "No straight corridor can be this long. Looks like there's more magic at work around here."

He had seen the fortress from the outside, and it was huge, but this corridor was far longer than was possible. It stretched away so far he couldn't even see the other end, like something out of a nightmare. He reasoned that magic made the impossible a reality here, so somehow it was a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. This didn't encourage any plans he had about finding his friends, if they'd all been dumped out by the transport spell like he had.

"The heck with it," he muttered, and reached for the nearest doorknob. He had been anxious about opening any of the doors, given the score of ten this place had already achieved on the freakiness scale, but right now he figured he didn't have that much to lose. And if he needed to, he always had the Third Arm Sash to help him. He patted his waist to make sure it was still there. "Mayhap the others are in one of these rooms. We'd best try, just in case."

"Let's not and say we did," said Dojo as the door opened.

The heat struck like a blowtorch, so sharp and sudden that they both gasped. Clay had suffered from sunstroke once, when he was very young and went out riding without a hat. Jessie had laughed at him, limping back inside, complexion paler than plain yoghurt beneath his sunburn. This was like that; the world beyond the doorframe was in disturbing shades of dull tan, yellow and brown, without shadows. The air was so full of heat that Clay felt like he could just reach out and squeeze smoke from it.

It wasn't a room.

"This isn't a room," Dojo said needlessly.

"Yeah, I figured that."

The doorway was just a hole in the world, some kind of tear in the fabric of reality itself – as if reality had much of a place in the fortress. Overhead, a sun blazed. Maybe it was the real sun. Maybe it was a fake. It was hot enough that Clay didn't much care. The landscape stretched before them wasn't a desert, though it was still dry and dusty. He would have recognised it anywhere.

"This looks like back home on the ranch."

"Oh joy. But let me ask you a question, cowboy." Dojo pointed. "Did you ever see _those_ on the ol' homestead before?"

A dust storm was rising in the distance, heading towards the doorway with increasing speed. As it approached, it brought with it a vague rumbling, and by squinting Clay could just make out something moving within the cloud. The doorjamb trembled under his fingers, and he realised with a jolt that the something wasn't just one thing but many. The sound began to separate itself out into something he'd heard only a handful of times before: hooves drumming to keep ahead of each other in a madcap rush, with no purpose or true direction save not being crushed.

It was a stampede.

Dark, lumbering shapes loomed from the cloud at a pace far too fast for their size. Any of Daddy Bailey's cows would have been dwarfed by these creatures, yet they retained something of the bovine about them. As they drew closer, Clay recognised the beasts he'd seen only in picture books and on documentaries about the Old West.

"Buffalo?" he breathed.

"Guess again, chumley," said Dojo in a panicky voice. "And I really do think you should shut the door now. And perhaps run away very fast."

The stampede drew closer, its speed impossible. Clay could see them much better now. They skimmed over the ground as though floating, but he could still feel the pounding of their hooves. It made his teeth rattle in his gums.

His stomach lurched suddenly. The buffalo were bloody and rotted, strips of flesh and hide hanging from skeletons. Several bleached skulls faced him down, while others wore what was left of their decomposing faces. Not one of them used a voice; they just ran headlong, staring with the intensity of the dead.

Clay slammed the door.

_Like that'll help_, part of him observed.

The stampede's hoofbeats echoed for a few seconds before dissipating completely. All the same, he backed away quickly, eyeing the door like it might suddenly burst off its hinges and spew dead buffalo at him.

Nothing happened. The closed door stayed closed.

_Oh. I guess it **did **help._

"I once heard that Buffalo Bill Cody wrote some journals in his old age that were never published," Dojo said slowly. "There was a scholar of Eastern vs. Western Magick who stopped by the temple about fifteen years ago, and he talked about it. Cody wrote about visions he'd had of herds of dead buffalo, whose spirits wouldn't leave the world of the living until the plains were wild again. Buffalo were nearly wiped out near the end of the nineteenth century, you see, but they used to be more common than deer on the American plains."

"You reckon that was them?" Clay tried to swallow the dryness in his throat.

"You got a better explanation?"

"Man, I'm done with explanations. I just wanna find the others, get the Saladin Shield and go the heck home. This place is creepier than ivy on a brick wall."

"Good plan. I approve. Just one thing: let's not open anymore doors we know nothing about, shall we?"

* * *

Kimiko surfaced slowly, like a corpse in a pond. Her brain seemed to have been replaced by sticky jam, which wasn't doing the job as well as traditional grey matter. She lay on her back while memory was drip-fed back to her. After a moment she groaned and held down the top of her head to keep it from unscrewing.

"_So _don't want to do that again," she mumbled, gingerly touching the goose-egg lump nestling above her left ear. "Ouch. Oh jeez, I'd better not have a concussion." Then she looked up. "Guys? You there?"

'Looked up' is perhaps not the best phrase to describe what Kimiko did. She was fairly certain she was looking up, since she was on her back and that was the most obvious place _to _look; and she was reasonably sure she'd opened her eyes, but the darkness didn't abate one bit. She blinked, and then reached up to touch her face to make sure she really had blinked and hadn't just imagined herself doing it.

"Guys?" she tried again. "Potentially injured teammate calling. Omi? Clay?"

No answer.

"Dojo? Raimundo?"

Still nothing.

"If this is some sort of trick, there are going to be some smacked heads when the light comes back."

Her voice echoed back at her, the tinny sort of echo that exists in caves and empty classrooms. She winced and rolled over onto her hands and knees. Rough rock jabbed against her skin. It was a little slick, as though someone had basted the ground with oil but not been very thorough about it. Kimiko sat back on her knees and waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

Generally, she knew, even in the darkest of places there was some light. Hollywood had been using it as a theme for redemption movies for years. Moon and stars shone on nighttime fields and permeated the leaves and branches of the deepest forest. The glimmer of streetlights crept around the edges of curtains and doors. In a dark room the human eye adjusted, pupil widening to let in as much light as was available, and within fifteen minutes a person was able to see as well in the dark as most animals.

She also knew that she could save herself a lot of time by just lighting a flame on her palm, like she had when they first came into the fortress. However, dust made her gag slightly and close her mouth. It smelled like the coalscuttle Grandma Toho still used in the Winter to light her stove, and that, coupled with the feel of rock under her, summoned the memory of a conversation she'd had with Clay months ago, on one of the rare occasions he talked about his family.

"My Daddy's a Texan through an' through," he'd said, interspersing his words with the wipe of a dishcloth over whatever soapy thing she'd just handed him, "but my Momma's side of the family's from Kentucky. Kicked up a big 'ol ruckus when she moved out onto Daddy's ranch. Granny Lilly, her own momma, she weren't too keen on my Daddy. Still ain't. Said he was a no-account worthless polecat stealin' her daughter for cheap labour. She never did get to know him properly. Could be pricklier than a porcupine huggin' a cactus when she wanted to, that lady."

The thought of Clay's familiar drawl made Kimiko feel a little better. She'd complained about his down-home sayings so many times she'd lost count, but there was something comforting about his ability to apply some dumb but cheering adage to any weird situation they found themselves in.

"Granny Lilly's husband, my Grandpappy Arthur, he was one of them salt of the earth types – literally. Worked in the mines practically his whole life. Started as a boy, see, an' worked 'til he couldn't work no more. Black Lung got him in the end, God rest his soul."

Black Lung, the affliction of professional miners, where years of breathing coal dust coated their lungs and rendered them unable to breathe unless through a tube. Decades ago, when working mines were more prevalent and machines less common, miners mostly died from either cave-ins or Black Lung, if they weren't injured so badly they couldn't go down into the pits anymore. Sometimes there were unplanned explosions, too. Methane was released when coal was cut from the earth, and methane burned ferociously with barely a spark to ignite it.

_All right_. Kimiko weighed up what she knew, which wasn't much, and compared it to what had happened the last time she was conscious. _I'm somewhere underground that smells of coal dust. Which probably means a mine, or some kind of cave. The guys are either knocked out or not here, and I can't risk lighting a fire to see which._ She couldn't hear anybody breathing nearby, and refused to think that meant anything but those two options. _That tunnel-room-mist thing must have sent me here, or else knocked me out so somebody else could put me here. Either way, my best bet is probably to get out of this place and figure out where I am, and where the others are. If they're here, I'll probably fall over their fat heads. If they aren't … I can cross that bridge when I come to it._

With this short-term plan, she shakily got to her feet. There was a roughly hewn wall within spitting distance. She braced her left hand against it so she didn't accidentally wander into it while working her way along the passage. The stone was cool but the air was warm with the heat generated by many tons of compressed coal surrounding her.

_I must be pretty far underground for the air to be this warm,_ she realised. A vague feeling of panic stirred within her, but she clamped down on it hard. Panic would only disorient her more.

"Guys?" She made one last-ditch attempt to raise them if they were in hearing distance. Her only reply was her own echo. "Right. I'm leaving now. In case you wanted to, y'know, know that. Or stop me."

She wished she wasn't the only one of their group who carried a cell phone. Network coverage permitting (and she used a private satellite owned by her father's company, which could get her a signal almost anywhere on the planet) she could have called them and, together, they could have formulated a plan to get the heck out of this mess.

The thought of her cell phone bumped against another, like dumplings in a stew. Kimiko reached into one of her pockets and brought out her PDA. It was thankfully undamaged, screen still glowing, and when held out in front of her acted like a torch, casting just enough light for her to see what was directly in front of her.

"All _right_. No falling over stuff for me," she muttered, picking a direction and taking her first hesitant step into the unknown.

* * *

"This is most perplexing," Omi announced.

He was in a bathroom; a shiny, gold-plated sort of bathroom that would have made those more concerned with wealth want to unbolt the faucets and stuff the crystal decanter under their sweaters. The walls were blue-tile with little dolphin motifs, and the floor was a stark black and white square pattern. It was a small room, and within a few seconds of landing upside down in the tub, Omi deduced that his friends were not in it. Still, he made a quick sweep to make sure.

"Where are you, my friends?" He opened a wicker closet stuffed with luxurious towels, upturned a basket – also full of towels – and stepped on the pedal of the bin to look inside, even though it was far too small for either people or towels. When there was no place left to check, he scratched his head and reached for the door handle.

Outside the bathroom was a swirly mass of purple vapour, set like an ocean against a sinister black sky.

Omi frowned. "That does not seem appropriate."

The vapour didn't react. Kimiko had once showed him a picture of the Milky Way on her PDA, and he was reminded of it now.

He glanced behind him at the bathroom, and then looked out at the vapour. It wasn't like a river with a welcoming far bank. It eddied and churned as far as his eyes could see, and when he glanced either side of the doorway he could see the outer walls of the bathroom but nothing else. It was like a little cube houseboat, only without the rest of the house. Or the water, for that matter.

"As Raimundo would say, this is most walloped." Omi said his thoughts aloud in case anybody could hear him. The vapour gave off a low hum, like the droning of bees, but other than that he could hear nothing.

He hoped the others were okay.

Gingerly, he reached out a toe to dip into the vapour. At once there was a snapping noise like lots of mousetraps going off at once. Something small, yellow and mostly teeth rose out of the vapour with its tiny pinpoint eyes fixed on his foot. Omi drew back with his lightning quick reflexes, peering at the small teeth-thing as it fell back into the vapour and vanished from sight. He fetched a towel from the cupboard and tossed it out of the door. More of the teeth-things immediately leaped up and tore it to shreds. They were like piranha, but larger, and trailed what looked like hair of a fire engine red from their tails.

"Most troubling. I cannot remain here, yet there does not seem anywhere else for me to go." Omi rubbed at his chin, where one day he would have a small white beard he could tug when thinking. He knew this because he'd seen it on his older self when they met – and how many people could say _that?_

Retreating into the bathroom he leaped at the wall and scampered up it, using the trick he'd always meant to teach his friends since they first arrived at the temple. He wasn't sure why he'd never got around to it. Probably he had been distracting his mind with video games and girl hugs – not to mention battling evil for the Shen Gong Wu. The thin edges of the tiles gave him enough grip that he made it up to the ceiling without falling, and examined it for any sign that he could leave the same way he had arrived. The ceiling was home to a lampshade with a dolphin motif, but nothing else. No handy swirling vortex appeared to suck him away, and he was forced to drop to the floor once more.

"Very well then." Fumbling in his robe he drew out a small crystal ball, of the kind used by fortunetellers in dim tents who claim they can divine the future. Omi was the kind of person who would believe the crackpots along with the genuine articles unless his more savvy friends set him straight, but right now he hoped he could use the ball to predict his own safe passage to wherever those friends had been taken.

He walked to the open doorway. Something small and yellow nosed against the bottom on the outside.

"Forgive me, little creatures, but I must decline to be your meal today. I have friends to rescue from what is probably very dire peril. They have a habit of finding it when I am not around to look after them." Holding the crystal ball aloft, he shouted, "Orb of Tornami! Ice!"

A blast of frozen water shot forth, speeding away in a wide arc that crystallised almost instantaneously. There was far more water than should have been possible from such a tiny thing, but logic took a backseat when you were dealing with Shen Gong Wu. Omi stopped the flow when the bridge was thick enough to walk on without collapsing, tucked the Orb under his arm and hurried out onto it. When he got to the end, which hung unfinished over the purple sea, he simply called on the Orb again, in tandem with his own powers, and extended its reach. In this stop-start manner he made his way in what he hoped was the direction of … well, anything but vapour and teeth-things.

Several daring teeth-things leapt at him as he passed. Most fell short, but a couple made it high enough that he could feel the air displacement as their jaws clacked together. Omi batted them out of the air with a succession of rapid punches and kicks, careful not to lose his footing on the precariously slippy ice-bridge. Most fell back into the vapour, but some lay gasping on the ice. Rather than leave them, Omi used small jets of water from the Orb to push them back into their habitat without actually having to touch them.

"Please do not attempt to waylay me," he implored. "I am on a undertaking most vital, and cannot stop for such minor inconveniences as yourselves."

The teeth-things either didn't understand him, or didn't care to listen. They continued to jump and snap, and Omi continued to evade and outrun them, all the while wondering and worrying at what fate had befallen his friends.

He didn't think his friends incompetent, though he nursed a secret view that their skills were still less than his own. He knew that Clay, Raimundo and Kimiko were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, and Dojo had survived 1500 years without them around to protect him. Omi was practical, especially in the battlefield. It was just that he truly and honestly believed he could do things better than everyone else. It wasn't true arrogance, nor his own inflated ego (at least, not completely). Rather, it was a genuine desire to look after the first friends he'd ever had of his own age – well, excluding Dojo, but he acted just like a teenager sometimes. The idea that something bad could have happened to them without him filled him with the kind of dread usually reserved for apocalyptic situations.

_Be safe, _he willed, backhanding a teeth-thing so hard he broke several fangs. _Please, at least until I get there._

* * *

"Yes! Thunderbirds are go, baby!"

Wuya emerged from the back of the hovercar to see Jack attempting to moonwalk across the sand. He had been forced to take off his ever-present black coat and shield his eyes with those stupid goggles. The coat, thrown across the backseat, had provided some nice cover from the sun. Though ghostly, Wuya retained the same problems with temperature as all flesh things.

_All of the setbacks and none of the perks_, she thought grumpily. "Have you fixed this accursed contraption at last?"

"Hey, hey, _hey_." Jack spun in place, stumbled, but set himself straight again with a theatrical flourish. "Less with the negativity, more with the gratitude, huh?"

"Stupid machine. I should have just gone and found the Shen Gong Wu by myself."

Jack scowled, brows tightening atop his goggles. "Yeah, because that worked _so _well the last time you went after a Wu on your own. You couldn't even pick it up."

Wuya folded her tendrils and sighed. "Can we dispense with our usual display of bickering and just get on with it before you pass out from sunstroke? You'll be no use to anyone unconscious and sunburned, least of all yourself."

"Is that concern I hear in your voice?" Jack asked as he opened the driver's door and clambered behind the wheel.

"I'm protecting my assets."

"Ha! You called me an asset!"

"Oh do be quiet. And top up your sunscreen. You're too pale for this kind of climate."

Jack wiped sweat from his face with a rag he'd been using to clean the intake valves. "Ew. Motor oil. Nasty." He stuck out his tongue and scraped at it. "Weel nathtee."

Wuya restrained the urge to growl at him. _This_ was her best chance at victory? She might as well go stuff herself back in the puzzle box and wait another 1500 years for someone more competent.

"So where to?" Jack asked after lathering himself in sunscreen and turning on the air-conditioning. He tipped his head back, allowing the cold air to dry his sweat and lower his temperature.

Forgetting her irritation, Wuya concentrated on the barely perceivable signature of a newly activated Shen Gong Wu. It blossomed like yellow fire in her mind. Well, she acknowledged, at least that meant the Xiaolin hadn't reached it yet. The signature changed once a Shen Gong Wu was claimed or won. She could dimly sense the four warriors. She supposed the dragon, Dojo, was probably with them, but she'd never been able to sense him. Their distinctive elemental signatures were like blue, yellow, green and red dots on the periphery of the yellow flame. They, too, were muffled.

_Strange_, she mused, but the thought was squashed by the realisation that they were closer to the Saladin Shield than she and Jack were. "Quickly," she ordered, gesturing the direction the hovercar should take. "We haven't any time to lose."

Jack saluted mockingly and the vehicle began to rise. Billows of sand swept out from under it as it gained height. Wuya surveyed them doubtfully.

"You're certain this thing won't break down again?"

"Sure as a sure thing that's very sure. I'd tell you how I bested my own genius this time, but the details are especially complicated, and I'm also sure you wouldn't understand them. You just take my word for it. We are cooking with _gas_, babe."

"Just drive." Wuya floated near his head and decided not to pass through it, even though he hated the sensation, in case he crashed and they lost all chance of retrieving the Shen Gong Wu first. "And don't call me babe."

* * *

_To Be Continued …_

* * *


	4. Three Steps Forward, Nine Steps Back

* * *

**4. Three Steps Forward, Nine Steps Back.**

* * *

Clay was getting mighty tired of this corridor. He'd climbed three staircases, passed hundreds of doors, and clonked his head on three low-hanging chandeliers, all without a single sign of his friends, the Saladin Shield, _or _an exit. In desperation he'd tried opening a couple of the doors, despite his bad experience with the zombie buffalo. This led to one chase involving a flying serpent, a narrow escape from a wolf-tiger hybrid with a taste for human flesh, and a mishap involving some tiny fairies that actually turned out to be vampires.

All in all, he wasn't having a good day.

"D'ya reckon any of these here doors lead to actual _rooms_?"

He was getting discouraged. He knew he was still in the fortress, since he'd looked through several windows – all of which refused to open – but he hadn't the foggiest where he was in relation to anything else. He felt like he might have to spend the rest of his days wandering up and down this corridor, until he died from either hunger, exhaustion, or one of the weird rooms' residents got him.

"Why are you asking me?" Dojo slumped onto the brim of his hat.

"Let's face it; we're more lost than a polar bear out on the prairie." Clay sighed. "Sure wish I had the Falcon's Eye with me."

"I wish we had the Serpent's Tail. Then we could just whoosh through the walls without fear of ending up in bite-size chunks. Emphasis on the _bite_."

"Yeah. Hindsight's right wonderful, ain't it?" Fingering the Third Arm Sash, Clay's brows pulled together. He stood up sharply.

"Hey, watch it down there." Dojo leaned over to look him in the eye. "Something wrong?"

"I think … I think we've maybe been goin' about this all wrong." Clay dashed up to one of the windows and stood with his legs apart, weight distributed evenly so that he would be knocked off his feet. "In a place like this, logic ain't welcome, right? We done learned that the hard way 'cause we tried to shove logic on top of it an' it didn't take. So we gotta think _laterally_."

"I'm not following you. Though I am intrigued."

"Just watch. Third Arm Sash! Earth!"

The sash rippled and flowed into life, shooting forward with its tassels bunched like a fist. A change came over it as it went, turning it from silky fabric into rough grey stone, which punched straight through the obstinate window. Glass and wood sprayed outwards in thick chunks.

Dojo's mouth formed a small 'o' of understanding. "Ah. Why trek a corridor when you can bypass it from the outside? So … are you going to climb through that?"

Clay observed the small, jagged hole cautiously. He punched out the rest of the window so as not to accidentally slice himself, then brushed damp hair from his eyes at the blast of heat from outside. "I reckon so."

A low moaning noise wafted down the corridor, like a Winter wind under a bedroom door. It intensified with each bit of window Clay smashed, making them feel rather uncomfortable. It sounded not unlike a wounded animal.

"Well, it's only my humble opinion, but I'd say that if you're going to do it, do it quickly," said Dojo.

Clay nodded and braced his hands either side of the broken pane, careful to pick places where there was no glass left to cut up his palms. "Third Arm Sash!" he said, leaving the sash flexible enough to reach right out of the window, feel around and eventually fasten onto a nearby stone gargoyle. When it was secure he bunched his leg muscles, sent up a small prayer, and dived headfirst out of the window.

For a few seconds Clay was in freefall while the slack played out. Then the sash caught his weight with a jerk that would later produce some nice big bruises around his midriff. It dragged him up to grab onto the gargoyle's face and he dangled precariously, more than sixty feet between him and the ground.

"Well, this is … how well did you think out this plan?" Dojo peered myopically at the sheer drop.

"What're you yakkin' about?" Clay huffed, arm muscles protesting loudly and with angry placards, even with the sash's help. "Y'all can fly."

"I – oh yeah. I can, can't I?" The little dragon pulled himself upright. "Once again it's Devastating Dojo to the rescue. I should get my own theme song. Heeere I come to saaave the daaay-"

"_Dojo_!"

"Right, right. I'll go down a few floors so I don't accidentally knock you off when I reach my magnificent larger shape."

"Gee, thanks."

"Well, here I go." With that, Dojo used his arms to propel himself off the hat and into the air. He fell like a bowling ball wrapped in lead.

Squinting, Clay watched him go. And go. And go. And _go_.

_Aw, crud._

There was the sound of grinding stone next to his ear. Clay's head whipped around as the gargoyle's eyes glowed red. Its jaws opened to reveal rows of sharp granite teeth. It snarled, a noise that sounded like a crypt door sliding open.

_Double crud._

* * *

To say that things were not going well for Omi would be a heartless underjudgment.

He had travelled far out over the sea of purple vapour, but the ice bridge, like any projected mass, eventually couldn't hold itself up alone. He was forced to wait for many precious minutes while building a series of struts on which to balance it before he could go any further. The first was particularly discouraging because he didn't really know how far down the vapour went before it hit something solid – or even if there _was_ something solid down there to hit.

The teeth-things continued their assault, and he had to break off several times when they attached themselves to his clothes. As a result, his outfit was torn in half a dozen places, ripped in many more, and sported an interesting fashion statement of only one sleeve. His left shoulder carried a half-moon of bites where he had been too slow to stop one creature. The punctures were tiny and hadn't bled much, but the skin around them was puffy and red, and the whole area was starting to throb. Added to this, there was still no sign of a stable destination on which he could land.

Now, after far too long in this place, he was being confronted by Momma Teeth-Thing. Titanic in size and ugly as a man with a sensitive nose after a skunk attack, it had risen from the depths right in front of him, flopping onto his bridge led by a mouth stuffed with fangs like carving knives. In appearance it was just like all the other creatures he'd bested. In sheer bulk it was not. Omi couldn't get past it to continue his bridge, but he couldn't look away to start a new one because every time he did it flailed at him with impossible speed. He'd already nearly lost a hand to those teeth, and rescued the Orb of Tornami milliseconds before it rolled over the edge.

Currently, he was attempting to push the creature back into the vapour via a flurry of punches, flying leaps and powerful kicks, but it didn't seem to be working.

"Please move!"

Momma Teeth-Thing wobbled towards him at speed.

"I cannot be delayed any further! You are in my way! Remove yourself!"

It changed direction and tried to bite his leg.

Omi vaulted over its head and threw a snap-kick at its back. It rolled over, causing him to land on its belly, where he was ensnared by a mass of moving red hair. The hair, thicker and coarser than anything he'd ever come across before, wrapped around his waist, his wrists, his ankles and his neck, and began to reel him in.

Omi's curiosity, oft-times quite removed from the rest of him, wondered whether there was another mouth in its belly, and that was what he was being dragged towards.

He struggled to breathe. He scrabbled at the hair squeezing his throat, but it caught at his fingers, apparently with the intention of pulling them clean off his hands. Black dots began to appear at the edges of his vision, surrounding the clumps of hair as they waved in his face like they were trying to smother him some more.

_I cannot afford this,_ he thought desperately. _I am not ready to be defeated by this flabby monstrosity._ He wasn't ready to die, either, but phrasing it as defeat made it seem less irrevocable.

"Tsu … nami … Strike … Water!" he wheezed, hair wadding itself into his mouth.

At once, the essence of his element suffused his veins. He was the deceptive calm of the ocean, the unending motion of the mountain stream, the subtle force of the reservoir and the raw power of a tidal wave. He gathered his limbs together as best he could and _twisted_, tearing the hair from its roots as a whirlpool drags in unwary swimmers. Momma Teeth-Thing screamed, a high-pitched sound, but by that time Omi was already free and bounding back onto his ice bridge.

Grasping the Orb of Tornami in both hands, he aimed it square and unleashed the full force of a few tons of water. "Orb of Tornami!" It smashed against the upended creature, propelling it sideways off the bridge and a few dozen feet out into the vapour. A massive wave swept across the surface as it hit.

"I believe this is the time I should say that retreat is the better part of vanquishing. Or something like that."

He built bridge like he'd never built bridge before, lengths of limp red hair still hanging off him. The Orb warmed in his hands. For the first time, Omi had qualms about just how much water he had at his disposal within it. At a push, he could recall some of the ice already used and shape it in front of him, but he worried that he was questioning the power of his Shen Gong Wu. He only did that when he was especially troubled.

He hoped Momma Teeth-Thing wouldn't follow him. He also hoped there were no more similar creatures lurking about. He was tired and sore and wanted nothing more than to grab the Saladin Shield and go home.

After a short while something wide and grey appeared on the … well, a horizon needed a sun, but in the absence of that Omi was doing his best. He headed towards it, not having a better place to go.

For the umpteenth time since he'd arrived in the bathroom he wished he'd brought the Golden Tiger Claws instead of the Orb of Tornami. The Xiaolin Dragons-in-training customarily only took one Shen Gong Wu each on missions, for travelling and weight reasons, though there had been exceptions to this rule in the past. Unfortunately, today was not one of those exceptions, and he had gone for his favourite item when he went down to the vault with the others. Now he wished he'd had more forethought, even though there was no way he could have predicted anything like this happening.

This place, this fortress was magic unlike anything he'd had to deal with before. It was unstructured, insofar as he usually knew what he was up against when he got caught up in some magical field or other. There was usually a defined enemy, be it Jack Spicer, Wuya, Katnappé, Pandabubba, or any other foe faced since the Shen Gong Wu started activating. This time he didn't know what was going on, who was doing it, or why. He was – if you'll pardon the pun – completely at sea. It made him edgy.

_I must organise my thoughts, _he told himself as he neared the looming grey mass. _A true Xiaolin warrior is focussed and resolute. He does not let himself be distracted by small matters._

His life had been full of small matters since the other Dragons came to the temple. He never would have thought he'd actually enjoy being distracted from his calling.

At last the grey shape resolved itself. It turned out to be a freestanding wall, floating on the purple vapour much like the bathroom he'd left. In the centre was a door with a handle and no lock or latch. Omi halted his bridge in front of it, squinting. Rather than open it straight away, he leapt with incredible agility onto the top of the wall to see what was on the other side – which turned out to be an identical wall-and-door combo. The wall was really just a strip of breezeblocks. The curious thing was that the hinges of the door were on the right on either side.

_Should not these hinges be on the left, if they are opposite sides of the same door? _

The wall was too thin to have two separate doors embedded in it. Curious, Omi scooted down the other side of the wall and, making sure to keep his body out of the way of anything that might blast, fire, squirt, gust, explode, or excrete on him, opened the anomalous door. It swung outward to reveal a jungle, replete with hanging vines, huge-leafed foliage and different birdcalls hanging in air thick as molasses with humidity. Somewhere close by there was a roar.

Omi quickly shut the door and retreated to the top of the wall. He measured the width of the bricks with his hands, even though it was obvious that the door must be some sort of portal, like those created by the Golden Tiger Claws. You couldn't fit a whole jungle into six inches of brick. Heck, you couldn't even fit a _scrap _of jungle into that.

The door he'd first approached swung open onto a white-walled hallway bordered by doors with wire-latticed windows; the kind favoured by schools to prevent too much damage by overzealous ballgames. There was nobody about, but there was also no roaring, and the air was a comfortable temperature. He shut it anyway.

Omi perched on top of the wall to consider things. He knew he had to go through one of the portals. His other options were to keep building ice bridges until he came across something better – and there was no guarantee of that happening – to go back to the bathroom, or to sit there and do nothing. None of those appealed, but he was uncertain which portal to choose. The white-walled hallway seemed infinitely more attractive. His shoulder hurt, and he didn't fancy having to fight any unfriendly wildlife so soon after Momma Teeth-Thing and her smaller, but no less toothy brethren. However, if there was one thing he had learned, it was that the easier choice is often the wrong one.

And then there was the magic to think about. Magic made things complicated. Who knew why it had put these portals here? Who knew who was controlling the magic in the first place? Who knew _anything _about this strange place?

The others might. Only he wasn't with the others, which was the whole idea of going through a portal, to try to find them. And that wasn't going to win any Best Idea of the Year Award, since jungles weren't supposed to exist inside houses, and he didn't want to be dumped somewhere on the other side of the planet.

In this case, the easier choice was also the most logical – if logic could be warped enough to fit this situation. Omi climbed down the wall for the last time, spent a few moments just looking into the white hall, and then swung inside.

* * *

"Man, this stinks. Literally."

The sewer reeked. Magical destination or not, it was still a sewer. Raimundo trudged along in a haze of disgust. He'd been walking for quite some time, but there had been no turns, no ladders, and no manholes overhead. He found that odd, but it wasn't like he'd had much experience in sewers for comparison, so he just walked. And complained. A lot.

That might have been why he didn't notice the slight ripple around the floating stick he'd just walked past. Wrapped in his own little world of revulsion and indignation, he didn't have much time to be examining stupid sticks. Not even when they twitched and slid beneath the water in an altogether scaly way.

"I'll bet the others are doing really cool stuff. Or I'll bet they've already found the Saladin Shield, and they're just sitting around wondering why I wasn't there to help. Here comes Raimundo, late to the party – _again_. How come you fell behind this time, Rai? Oh, I don't know, guys. It might be because I've been taking a stroll in a freaking _cesspit_." He sniffed his tee-shirt. "Oh yeah. _So_ getting burned when I get out of here. And I don't even want to _know_ what that stain on my leg is." His shoes squelched horribly.

Something hissed lightly to his right. Then it splashed in a much noisier way. Raimundo turned in time to see a mountain of green-brown flesh rear from the foetid water. Even though it was below his ledge the creature came up to his level while on its hind legs. It was enormous, as were his eyes.

"But I thought alligators in the sewer were just an urban legend," he mumbled in that out-of-touch way that hits when reality has taken an unexpected twist and left a person's brain undulating in its wake.

The alligator opened its massive jaws and lunged at him.

"Eep!" Raimundo threw himself aside, skittering towards the edge of the ledge on his belly. Immediately he did, the alligator tried to pin him with a forearm like a tree trunk. He rolled away. The impact with the concrete left a hand-shaped depression.

It roared.

"Wait a second, is it you or the crocodile that can't make a noise?"

The alligator eyed him beadily. It had a gaze that could melt titanium. There was nothing compassionate about that gaze. Everything about it bespoke a hunter, one of the creatures that had remained unchanged for millions of years as the world evolved around them because their bodies were already perfect killing machines.

Raimundo saw that look, recognised part of it, and didn't like it one bit.

He tried to run away. A tail like a steel cable bullwhipped in front of him, leaving a slice through the concrete. He doubled back the way he had come, but the rest of the alligator was climbing out of the water there. It was more than sixteen feet long, with sharp ridges down its spine, and it was scary as hell.

This wasn't a two-bit bad guy with terrible puns and an ego complex. This wasn't even a whole dollar's worth of bad guy with slightly better puns. This was something primal, and it had found and focussed on him as its next snack.

Mulish resolve flooded through Raimundo. _I don't freaking think so. I didn't come all this way just to be picked from this thing's teeth_. He held out the Sword of the Storm and stood in a ready position, keeping his back to the wall and trying to keep an eye on both the tail and that overlarge mouth. "Bring it, you Jurassic Park reject."

The alligator hissed. It didn't speak, but he sensed its intelligence.

Stillness descended. Neither of them moved, each waiting for the other to be the first. Somewhere, a leaky pipe dripped.

Then the alligator attacked. With impossible speed it shot forward, intending to pin Raimundo to the wall with the tip of its snout. It might have worked, too, had he not leaped high into the air and let it pass harmlessly under him.

Or … less harmlessly than he'd thought when he jumped. The alligator lifted its head straight up in a way he was _sure_ they weren't supposed to do, and opened its mouth, waiting for him to fall into it.

"Sword of the Storm!"

A funnel of wind caught Raimundo, the other end driving down into the alligator's throat at the same time. It gagged, eyes bulging, and he took some grim satisfaction in that. For his part, he landed further up the tunnel and started running as fast as he could, looking for an exit. There was no shame in running away when you had important stuff to do, he told himself.

Behind him, the alligator roared again and gave chase. It was ridiculously fast, arrowing towards him on legs that seemed to go around in circles like in that dumb Roadrunner cartoon. Raimundo had played soccer his whole life, which involved a lot of running. He may have complained a lot about the training, but he had stamina and speed in abundance, and it was _still_ gaining on him.

_And me without a handy flamethrower_.

He scanned the ceiling for signs of escape. Only now did it register that he hadn't seen so much as a sniff of one since he landed.

Hot breath hit his heels.

"Wind!" Raimundo called on his element, marshalling his chi to guide it through him. From nowhere a strong gust sprang up, buffeting him forwards and giving him an extra burst of speed. He did it again, sustaining the gust this time so that he looked as though he was flying. "Eat my dust, sucker!"

The alligator skidded to a halt.

"Ha _ha_! Yeah, you know when you're beat, don't you?" Raimundo threw a rude gesture at it and turned to carry on as far as the wind would bear him.

Which turned out to be about seven feet.

A large metal grate spread from one side of the sewer to the other. It was choked with debris and weeds, keeping them – and him – from getting past and into the underground lake beyond.

"Dude!" He pulled up short and landed in the water with a splash. He'd thought it fairly shallow, but it came up to his armpits and stank like a dead cow left in the heat for three days. "Aw, man. No fair!" Frustrated, he waded to the grate and shook it. It clanged, but was too solid to be moved.

Behind him, he heard a low hiss. It might have been his imagination, but it sounded triumphant.

And hungry.

* * *

The sign on the wall proclaimed this Ward 23. From what he knew, Omi deduced that this meant he'd landed up in a hospital somewhere. Not wanting to be stranded, he went back to the portal – a door into a broom cupboard here – which he'd wedged open with a fire blanket off the wall.

However, when he reached the broom cupboard it was shut. He opened it, but it was full of buckets, mops, cleaning fluids and the odd spider web. Both portal and fire blanket were gone.

"Oh dear," he muttered, looking around. "I wonder where I am." With no better idea forthcoming, he set off to try and find someone who could tell him. Once he had that piece of information, he could go about constructing a plan to rescue his friends.

He supposed being thrown out of the magical field did have its advantages. The Xiaolin Temple had no phone line, but there was a village not far away that he could perhaps get through to, and somebody could run to the temple from there. Hospitals were supposed to have phones for emergencies, and this was definitely an emergency. Thank goodness Kimiko had let him practise using the confounded things with her cell. He could ask Master Fung what to do, maybe somehow get some more Shen Gong Wu (a fighting chance was always good), or at least get a message through about what had happened.

There didn't seem to be anyone about. Omi hadn't been in many hospitals, so he didn't know what procedure about visitors was. He'd heard Kimiko talk about online newsflashes regarding how they always seemed to be understaffed, so he attributed the lack of activity to that. When he came to a staircase that turned around a corner he started down it without a second thought.

Something with a vaguely feminine shape was coming up the stairs from the floor below. She wore a smart blue nurse's uniform that almost matched the colour of her pockmarked skin. When she looked up and spotted Omi she smiled broadly, exposing multiple rows of teeth that looked like they belonged on the business end of a few hundred rusty scalpels.

"Oh, good. Another patient."

Omi was repulsed by her appearance, but appearances could be deceiving, so he held true to his natural good manners and replied, "I am sorry, but I believe you are mistaken, Miss … ah …" She had no name tag. "I am not a patient at this place of sickness and curing. I am a little misplaced and in search of a telephone - "

"Let's get you in to see the doctor, shall we?"

He blinked. "I am most apologetic, Miss Nurse, but I am not in need of a doctor. I am in need of a telephone."

"Now, now, no need to be nervous. Dr. Pinwheel is the best at what he does." The nurse advanced on him, hands outstretched. They had been hidden behind her back before, but now Omi saw that they were stained with suspicious red spatters. So was the little white apron tied around her waist.

He took a step back up the staircase.

Her smile twitched a bit. "Come now, don't be silly. Everybody has to see the doctor eventually."

"I apologise, but I am perfectly healthy."

That seemed to annoy her. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head. "And are you qualified to make that judgment? I think not. Now come on, be a good boy. Don't make me sedate you."

Omi took another step backwards, one hand on the banister.

The nurse sprang at him. He caught a glimpse of lengthening nails as he dodged. The narrow stairwell hampered any real acrobatics, but he managed to avoid her by using the banister as a fulcrum and flipping over her head. She turned and brandished fingers at him that were bulging and sharpening. As Omi watched in fascinated horror they became ten hypodermic needles, each one dripping green fluid.

"Be a good boy," the nurse-monster growled, "and take your medicine."

Omi replied by leaping onto the banister and jumping. He hit the storey below with a bone-jarring thud, but absorbed the impact with a roll – enough to stand up and start running almost immediately.

"Stop!" The nurse thundered down the stairs behind him. "The doctor will be very angry if you don't take your medicine!"

He just kept running. A white hallway stretched ahead, lined with unmarked doors on either side and identical to the one he'd just left. He ran past them all, not wanting to slow down and make himself vulnerable just to find he'd opened a door onto a dead end. When he came to another staircase he checked over his shoulder to see how far ahead he was.

The nurse banged on doors as she ran. Several opened, and out of them came more nurses with wide mouths and sharp teeth, whose fingers morphed to scalpels, hypodermics, scissors and other tools as they whooped and joined the chase. All of them wore sensible shoes and neatly pressed uniforms, creating a bizarre crossover image of hospital drama and horror movie.

_Oh dear_. Omi got to the middle of the stairwell and halted, confronted by more nurses swarming from the hallway downstairs. There were dozens, more than a few of them bearing the same red splatters as the first one he'd met. He didn't even know how they'd known to come to this specific spot; they just homed in on him like children on a new plaything. _This does not look good_.

And the Understatement of the Year Award went to…

He was boxed in, his only exits filled with nurses. Omi took a deep breath, focussed his mind, brought up his hands and distributed his weight evenly over both legs. The nurses thrust each other out of the way, each one trying to get to him first.

Inexplicably, he suddenly remembered teaching Kimiko and Raimundo how to stand properly, not long after they first came to the temple.

"What?" Raimundo had said. "You crazy, short man? I've been standing for a lot of years. I know what I'm doing."

And Omi, so intent on being a teacher for once instead of a pupil, had shaken his head at them both. "It is not about simply being upright. It is about balance. It is about equilibrium. Clay understands. You need equilibrium to ride a horsey."

"How's a dude like you know words like 'equilibrium'?"

"Nng. Attack me."

"Say what?"

"Both of you. Attack me like you want to hurt me."

Kimiko had rubbed at her arm, hesitant. Already she was developing an overprotective vibe when dealing with him. "But I don't want to hurt you. You might get, y'know, _hurt_."

"You serious?" Raimundo had demanded. When Omi assented he'd shrugged, muttered, "Your funeral," and plunged at him with the wild abandon of one who wants so badly to prove himself.

Omi laid them both flat with one move. And again when they got up. He never moved from his spot, either. Again and again they threw themselves at him. Again and again he tossed them away like rolled up bits of paper into a wastepaper basket. Only when they were covered in small cuts and bruises, and him without a scratch, did they stumble to their feet and not pile into him.

"Okay, smart guy," Raimundo had said through a fat lip. "Teach us how to stand."

Omi remembered walking around them, telling them to pull their shoulders up because he couldn't reach to do it himself. He remembered straightening their curved spines, lifting Kimiko's chin, changing the angle of Raimundo's hips. It felt strange to them to have all their weight on their thigh muscles instead of their bones. For the first proper time in their lives, each of them was aware of the middle of their feet and the usable space between them. It made them faster, sharper, allowing them to pour themselves from one move into another instead of jigging around like rabbits in snares. They had never forgotten that lesson, though it was one of the few Omi ever gave them. Sometimes, he later realised, it was better to be the pupil than the teacher.

When the nurses flocked towards him he used the same moves he'd taught Raimundo and Kimiko – and later Clay when he asked. Like water flowing from one glass into another, Omi went through a series of fast but controlled movements that defended his balance as well as his body. If you went down in a fight against many opponents you rarely got up again. He knew that. The idea was to stay on your feet and do as much damage as you could, intimidating them, perhaps driving them into making mistakes. If you could keep your head while all others around you were losing theirs…

Yet he was on the defensive, and it is virtually impossible to win a fight that way. Slowly but surely, Omi was forced backwards against the wall, all the time being set upon by hordes of snapping teeth and flashing metal implements.

He ducked. A handful of hypodermics buried themselves in the wall above his head. He kicked out, and a finger-scalpel sliced a chunk out of his costume. He grunted and swung and tossed and struck until his back and forehead were soaked with sweat.

Oh, for Jack Spicer and his easily defeated Jack-bots.

Leaping and spinning in a tight circle, Omi pulled out his Shen Gong Wu. "Orb of Tornami!"

Water flooded the staircase. It buffeted against the nurses, pushing against their ranks. Many were swept away by the sheer force of it; others hung onto the handrail so tight they cut their own palms to ribbons. Of those who did this, those with needles for fingers had their eyes rolling back into their heads as they went.

Omi clung to a light fixture, willing them all far, far away from him, and not halting the Orb until the last screeching blue figure was a fading noise disappearing down the hall. He didn't even know where he'd sent them. Probably just another white hallway. Then he dropped to the floor.

"Orb of Tornami! Ice!"

A thick wall of ice uncoiled from floor to ceiling and completely blocked the stairwell.

Omi let out an exhausted breath. _I think … I may be still in the strange fortress somewhere_, he thought. He was both pleased and distressed at the notion, but mostly he was tired. His shoulder hurt. When he put the Orb back in his robe his fingers cracked free of it with pieces of ice still on them.

"There you are!" cried a voice.

Omi turned to see the very first nurse trip-trapping down the stairs and stepping daintily over puddles towards him. It was almost obscene for someone that hideous and dangerous to be that graceful.

"You waited for me. How nice. Oh, but someone's had a little accident, haven't they?" She wagged the hypodermic that had once been her index finger. "Naughty. We do have toilets, you know. And bedpans if you can't get that far."

Omi bit back a groan and readied himself again. "As my friend Raimundo would say; you must be toddlering me. Can a noble warrior not rescue his friends without these constant inconveniences?"

"Oh, you want friends?" She smiled even wider and spread her arms. "But we're all friends here. One big happy family, with all the Sisters, Mummy Matron and Daddy Doctor."

Omi took a second to weigh up the pros and cons of it, and then punched her in the jaw. She fell backwards, stunned. He leaped over her and ran back up the stairs, the opposite direction to the one he'd boxed the horde of nurses in.

He needed to find a window. If he was still in the fortress, then he could climb out of a window and get his bearings without being randomly attacked by healthcare employees, purple gases or bloated teeth-things. Also, if he was outside then he could start again from scratch, going in through the front entrance but _not _into the hexagonal room with the glass ceiling. Maybe then he'd have better luck finding the others and the Shen Gong Wu – although from what he'd seen and experienced so far, he was rather more worried about his friends than the Saladin Shield.

For the thousandth time that day, he hoped they were okay – or at least having better luck than him.

* * *

"Dang it! Let go of me, you varmint!"

Clay struggled against where the gargoyle had a firm grip of his shoulders. He tried once to kick it, but came away with a throbbing set of toes. The fact that he was dividing his attention between it and Dojo wasn't helping. Dojo had plummeted out of sight without even the slightest indication of flight or resizing, and the gargoyle was pulling Clay's shoulders in opposite directions, as though trying to rip him right in two.

"Oh no you don't! Third Arm Sash! Earth!"

The sash rocketed into the side of the gargoyle's head, which smashed. The body it was attached to shuddered and froze. Clay was left dangling uncomfortably from its locked claws.

"Dagnabbit." He stretched out with his toes, trying to touch the ledge it was sitting on. It was just out of reach. He waggled his feet furiously. "I'll bet this sort of thing never happened to Indiana Jones."

"I don't know. Harrison Ford had a knack for getting into trouble on set as much as his character did on digs."

Clay swivelled his head as far as it would go. "Dojo! I done thought you'd forgot how to fly."

Dojo looked affronted. Since his face was so large, the expression was very clear to see. "Me? I'm insulted. I just didn't want to accidentally squish you or anything – although it looks like you found trouble just fine without me. I mean, I was only gone – what, ten seconds? And look what you've done to yourself."

"I didn't 'zactly plan this. Hey, what're you laughin' at?"

Against all propriety, Dojo had a hand over his mouth to hold in a snigger. "You look like a trussed up turkey. Or one of those moving ducks you have to shoot to win a prize at the fair."

"Har de har har. I reckon there should be less yakkin' here, an' more helpin' me get free."

"What? Oh, sure." Dojo clasped Clay around the waist with one hand and casually snapped the gargoyle off at the legs with the other. His strength was impressive. Clay was reminded that, though Dojo was a confirmed and loyal ally, he sure wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him in a bad mood.

Dojo carefully crumbled the gargoyle, dropping bits of stone to fall out of sight. It took several minutes and a lot of meticulous picking at the claws. By the time he was done, Clay's back felt three inches wider than when he woke up that morning.

"So what now?" Dojo asked, placing him on his back.

"Well, we gotta find the others first. A Shen Gong Wu's all fine an' dandy, but it means less than onions if'n we ain't all together an' safe."

"Onions?"

"Down-home phrase. Onions ain't worth much." Clay thought for a moment. "Y'all once sniffed out the Serpent's Tail, even though it'd been activated for a long while, right?"

"You know I did. Right before Wuya got her - " Realisation dawned. "Oh. _Oh. _You want me to find the Shen Gong Wu that Omi, Raimundo and Kimiko were carrying because that'll lead us right to them, don't you?"

"Orb of Tornami, Sword of the Storm an' the Star Hanabi." Clay checked them off on his fingers. "Provided they still got 'em. Think you can do it, partner?"

Dojo took an experimental sniff. "I'll do my darnedest."

"Good. Now let's get, afore any more of those ugly roof ornaments come to life."

* * *

Kimiko was no real fan of the dark. She wasn't afraid of it, but when she was a little girl she'd been afraid of what was _in_ it; what it could contain and conceal that even hiding under a blanket wouldn't deter. She'd long since outgrown her nightlight, but everything she'd ever hated about the dark was defined, distilled and purified down in the pits.

The darkness was absolute. The dim glow of her PDA was barely worth the effort. She made her way along primarily by touch, sometimes pausing and lifting her face in case of a breeze that could tell her where the exit was.

"Dumb place," she muttered, stumbling over yet another rock. "Stupid mission. Why couldn't the Shen Gong Wu be in a mall somewhere? Or in a tree outside a mall. That would've been a whole bunch easier. But no, it had to end up in this freaky-deaky hotspot of creepiness instead."

She wanted to hit something – preferably something that wouldn't smash her knuckles to paste.

Her PDA flickered and dimmed.

"Oh, no. _No_!" Kimiko shook it, which actually seemed to help a little. Still, she looked around with eyes wide, needing an exit now more than ever. She didn't want to be left down here in complete darkness. It was bad enough as it was. She hurried along, stubbing her toes, stumbling and falling a couple of times. "Please don't give out," she pleaded with her PDA. "Please. I'll get you some new batteries as soon as we get home, I promise. Guide's honour."

She'd been thrown out of her Guide Pack after only one month for picking a fight with another girl – one that left her opponent with a broken nose. Mommy had been upset. She'd wanted her to have more extracurricular activities she could boast about. Some of Daddy's best business clients were British – but not the kind who drank in pubs, watched TV and said "Buggering hell!" when they hurt themselves. These were stuffy men in perennial grey suits, who put on airs and graces because they felt they ought to conform to stereotypes in order to be taken seriously. As a result, they laid a lot of importance on the Guide Association. It cultivated little girls who were sweet and innocent; who sang campfire songs while toasting marshmallows, and took care packages to the elderly; and who most definitely didn't fight.

Kimiko stood still. She was sure she'd heard something. She waited, in case it came again.

Sure enough, a low 'swush-swup' filtered though the darkness. It sounded like a spoon trying to mix especially thick batter.

"The heck…?" she mumbled, moving towards it.

It was the ultimate slasher movie cliché – clueless girl goes towards odd noise, ready for the killer to jump out and show her what her entrails look like. The only difference was that Kimiko wasn't some ditzy blonde – well, maybe sometimes she was blonde, but strictly the non-ditzy kind – and she was fairly certain she could take down some hick in a mask without dying. She'd faced down a powerful Heylin witch, stone golems, endless hostile robots and the odd evil megalomaniac. Plus, the darkness was closing in as her PDA dimmed, and the noise was as good a sign as any that there might be light at the end of this tunnel.

'Swush-swup' went the noise. Faintly, but still there.

Closer crept Kimiko.

Then – there! A slight breeze, no more than a whisper really, but enough to give her hope. A way out, perhaps. Some path out of the pits, or at least out of the darkness.

Kimiko hurried forward. She felt her way around a wide corner and found herself facing a wall of solid rock.

_Oh … nutbunnies._

There was a small tunnel near the floor. She'd have to get down on her hands and knees to fit through it, but it was emitting the breeze she'd felt. Hesitantly, she crouched and allowed the gentle puffs of air to caress her face and neck. The air was warm, probably made so by all the compressed rock it had touched, but it moved enough to make her nibble her lip and cast about so she could at least go through the motions of looking for another option.

_It's either this or go back to the very start and walk the other direction. _That would eat up valuable time, plus it could potentially lead to another position just like this one, if not worse.

The final decision was made by her PDA, which flickered and died, plunging her into complete blackness. Sucking up her courage – which she was not short of, even if she applied it improperly sometimes – she started to crawl.

The tunnel was narrow – _very_ narrow. At several points Kimiko was forced to dip her head and wriggle along on her belly, using only her elbows to pull the rest of her body forward like some soldier avoiding overhead shells. Once, the floor dropped downwards in a steep decline, but for the most part it was a series of even gradients and inclines.

She worried a little that what she was breathing might be a combination of poisonous gasses, or that she might find herself trapped in here should there be a cave-in. Some of the rocks along the way looked very unstable, as though breathing on them too hard might cause them to come loose. The darkness was also a problem. In so small a space, and without her PDA, she literally couldn't see what was in front of her face. She scraped and scratched and grazed her skin, knocking her head when she tried to go too fast. However, the light touches of breeze made her force these doubts away and press on. Her progress was slow, but she _made progress_, and that was the main thing.

Eventually, as with all things, the tunnel came to an end. Kimiko reached the mouth after a steeper incline than usual and paused to look out of it. She appeared to have come out in the floor somewhere – where, she had no idea, but there was light out there. Light!

She scrambled free, pulling herself up and out with arms that felt like they could throw a shot-put clean out of the Olympic Stadium. The next few moments were spent wobbling and blinking, as her muscles relaxed and her eyes became accustomed after so long in the dark.

She was in a large cavern. The ceiling was riddled with small holes, through which shone pinpricks of light. Each shaft was thin and yellow, but they illuminated the cave well. Kimiko gazed around, enchanted by the way the shadows were shaped and stabbed through by tiny yellow swords. It was like an arrangement of fairy lights over a front porch, beating back the darkness so you could cross the threshold safely. An overwhelming part of her wanted to just curl up and go to sleep after the exertions she'd gone through to get here.

"Oh man," she muttered, lips dry. She reached for the canteen at her waist, a little surprised – but pleased – to find it still attached.

When she took it away from her lips the rim was covered in a black sludge of coal dust and water. Experimentally, she touched her cheek, but it was impossible to tell how dirty her face was, since her hands were also black. There was an acrid aftertaste in the back of her throat.

"Man, I _so_ need a bath. Maybe when I find Omi he can just use the Orb of Tornami to blast all this icky stuff off me."

Thinking of Omi renewed her concern from her friends – suppressed while in the tunnel, where panic could have been lethal. Kimiko looked at the holes in the ceiling, wondering where they led; wondering if her friends were anywhere up there in the light. She didn't even know how far down she still was. There was at least forty feet of dead space between her and the cavern roof, and it wasn't like she had a handy elevator available. She wished Omi had taught her how to walk on walls like him. It really was a useful trick – and she was sure someday she'd be able to say the same thing about walking on just two fingers, too.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she completely failed to notice something black and gungy clinging to the walls of the cavern.

Something black and gungy that quivered, expanded to the size of a large pumpkin, and then slowly slithered along the wall towards her.

_Swush-swup._

* * *

_To Be Continued …_

* * *


	5. Unfriendly Natives

* * *

**5: Unfriendly Natives**

* * *

"For the love of all that is cruel and immoral, Jack, it's just a shielding spell. I could cast one in my sleep. Had I my _powers_, that is."

"Ooh, shiny…"

Wuya glared at him. _Such a magpie_. Sucking up her dignity, she floated through one ear and out the other, careful to keep herself away from his thoughts as she went. As far as he was aware, only he knew of those magazines under the bottom drawer of his cupboard, and she was more than happy to leave it that way.

Jack squawked and held his head. "Geez Louise! What'd you go and do that for? You could've made me crash!"

"We're hovering stationary, and we're on autopilot. You've been throwing things through that shielding spell for the past five minutes."

A collection of tools and spare parts lay on the sand outside the shield. They could be seen from this side, but those thrown from the outside in were invisible when not on the same side as they had fallen. It was like a two-way mirror in a supermarket.

Jack folded his arms and grumped, "Yeah, well … I was just testing it."

"You were cooing every time the pretty lights appeared." Wuya pointed at the huge building they're happened upon in their search for the Saladin Shield. "Now focus. We're here to make history, not fireworks."

The Shield's energy signature had erupted in her mind the moment they passed through the protective barrier, turning from a damp squib to a sparking Roman Candle. It was like catnip to Wuya – she needed to find the source, and she needed to find it _now_. True, there were many questions about what the hell a giant hodgepodge stronghold was doing way out here, where the locality strived to be the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere was a high-class district compared to this armpit of the world. The obvious magic hanging around was also curious. Apart from the shielding spell, there was the tang of recently expended energies on the air.

However, it could all wait until they'd found the Shen Gong Wu. That was paramount – finding the object and taking it first. And if worse _did _come to worst … well, she was a ghost. It wasn't like anything could kill her.

Jack pouted, but saw the sense in her cajoling. He pressed a button and expertly manoeuvred a set of oversized mechanical arms in the nose of the vehicle to pick up the spare parts and tools and stow them in the underbelly. Then, casting one last I-really-wish-I-knew-how-that-worked look at the barrier, he removed the autopilot and steered them towards the building.

"You sure the Shen Gong Wu is in there?" he asked when they got closer. It was an overwhelming, sinister place. He couldn't help but get the feeling he was being watched from the windows. "Like, really inside? Not just on the roof, or in the garden or something?"

"I'm not one of your machines. I don't break down. Of _course_ I'm sure."

"Whoa, hey, no need to get snappy. I was just asking. So, uh, any idea how we get inside? I'm guessing somewhere like this has some serious magical mojo going on."

"Doubtless it has."

"Should I knock?"

She threw him a look of disgust. "You're a would-be evil world conqueror, Jack. Evil doesn't play nice and use the front door."

"Right. Gotcha." There was a protracted pause. "Back door, right? No wait, wait, wait, wait – _side_ door! The lateral choice. I'm right, aren't I? Go on, you can say it."

"Your powers of deduction are staggering," Wuya sarcasmed. She looked away from him, and a flash of movement and colour in an otherwise still backdrop arrested her eyes.

"Hey," said Jack, also looking, "isn't that Dojo?"

"The Xiaolin warriors are already here!" she seethed. "Move it, Jack, or you'll be beaten to the punch yet _again_!"

"All right, all right, keep your hair on. Or tendrils. Or whatever it is you call those things."

"Rrrr…"

* * *

Raimundo faced down the alligator with a robustness that verged on muscular, and a bravery that some might call total raving lunacy.

For its part, the alligator just stepped steadily forward.

"C'mon," he urged, focussed entirely on it. It didn't pay to keep looking for escape hatches when it meant taking your eyes off the few hundred pounds of man-eating lizard headed your way. "I'm gonna kick your ass 'til it's a brand new shape, you handbag-waiting-to-happen. You pipsqueak. You dumba-"

The alligator charged.

Raimundo leaped high; higher than he felt he'd ever leaped before. The 'gator lifted its head to snap at him, as if anticipating the move from before, but 'gators weren't supposed to be that smart, were they? They weren't supposed to learn from seeing something just once – not something like that.

Then again, alligators also weren't supposed to be living in the sewers, or in supernatural buildings, and this one was breaking both those rules already.

Its teeth clicked together less than an inch from Raimundo's shoes. He felt the swish of air, smelled the rotten meat stink of its breath. He had time to wonder what – or who – had been its last meal. Then he landed on its back – right as it cannoned into the metal grate.

They were a high-pitched shriek of rending metal, but the grate was only twisted, not removed. The passage was still blocked, except that now both the grate and an angry alligator blocked it.

The alligator whipped its head around, trying to reach its unwelcome passenger. Its tail cut through the air like a whip flogging the back of a condemned man.

_Soooo not good. C'mon, thinkthinkthink. Idiot._ Raimundo remonstrated himself, alternately clutching and ducking each end of the 'gator. _You can't stay up here forever, and it's gonna get you if you don't think of some way out of this…_

He wasn't the greatest of spot strategists. He'd proved against Tubbimura and Pandabubba that, given enough time to prepare, he could come up with fantastic tactics – simple yet effective, workable yet just complicated enough to give their enemies a nasty shock. Give him a map, an impenetrable citadel and a few hours, and Raimundo could probably plan the most daring and successful infiltration-and-break-out the place had ever seen. Give him a team to coordinate and he wouldn't even need the few hours.

However, when it came to thinking on his feet, he had never quite kicked the bad habit of leaping before he looked – in this case literally. While he had no desire to be on the business end of those jaws, he wasn't doing too spectacularly up here, either, and all his good ideas seemed to have deserted him.

Unwillingly, he wondered what Omi would do. It wasn't that he wanted the little dude as his maharishi or anything, but Omi _was_ the spot strategist of their group. Omi could think on his feet; could throw himself at situations where time was non-existent, stakes high and victory imperative, and _somehow _emerge victorious anyway. He wasn't so hot at long-term strategising, and his ego meant his teamwork was wonky, but he was an expert short-term problem-solver in a fight. Kimiko and Clay were getting better, but Omi was undoubtedly their heavy-hitter when it came to planning under pressure.

_Omi would probably use this thing's strength against it. But I already tried that, and it didn't work. _

Raimundo looked around frantically. He'd been at the temple long enough to learn a new respect for the sanctity of life. Though this alligator had tried to kill and eat him, he couldn't bring himself to just stab it. It was only doing what nature intended it to do, said a voice way back in his mind. It sounded irritatingly like Master Fung. Besides, the Sword of the Storm just wasn't made for that sort of thing, and using that way would dishonour it.

_I'm thinking about a hunk of metal like it's alive. Oh man, I've been in the sun too long._

The alligator roared and went into a death roll. In the wild, this was how it hunted – lying in wait for prey, then dragging it into the deeper waters, where silt was thrown up as whatever animal it had caught struggled for purchase and was slowly crushed and drowned. Those powerful jaws were designed more as a trap than a weapon – though Raimundo would have argued that case right now.

He executed a series of small hop-skips as it rolled, like a man balancing on a rolling log as it floated down a river. Then he hurdled the belly of the alligator, using its groin for leverage and landing on the bowed grate. He hooked the fingers of his free hand into the holes and hung on.

That was when he noticed it: a small space where the grate had come away from the wall. It was barely enough to slide through, but big enough to make him want to try. Clay's broad shoulders would have jammed, but Raimundo was skinny enough that just maybe …

He hauled himself up and twisted around in a thoroughly gymnastic manoeuvre, thrusting his feet through first so he could swing the Sword of the Storm if he needed to and not leave his back exposed. One piece of metal jabbed into his thigh, making him wince at the bruise that would be sure to come later.

The alligator advanced, snarling. Raimundo shoved against the other side of the grate with his free hand, pulling the rest of his torso and head through. His shirt caught and tore. He landed backwards in the shallow water with a splash. The alligator crashed against the grate, bowing it further, but those bolts were tenacious. It refused to give in, leaving the creature snarling impotently from the other side.

At once, Raimundo jumped to his feet and gave it another rude gesture. "How'd you like me _now_, huh? Oh yeah, I am the _man_!"

The continued snarls made him back up a little.

Okay, so the crowing was maybe a bad idea. First, he had to get out of the sewers – preferably to somewhere Mean and Green couldn't follow – _then _he could crow. And how. Even Omi hadn't ever defeated a mutant alligator before. And sure, technically he hadn't _defeated _it, per se, but hey; a little embellishment was expected now and then, right? It wasn't really _lying_ if he told them he had, right?

The alligator rammed the grate a third time. The metal rasped loudly against brick.

Right.

Raimundo looked around. Apart from the still water, he would have said he was at a crossroads of the sewers and waterways under the fortress. All around him were tunnels and channels leading off into the unknown, each of them dark and dank and disgusting. The ground here was lower than in the tunnel he'd just left, the water barely past his knees, but he could see that in some of the tunnels it would be up to his neck. There were also more grates to contend with.

Three tunnels had no grates. Two of them were relatively shallow, while the third involved some swimming. So Raimundo did the most sensible thing with the two shallow tunnels.

"Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Catch a tiger by its toe - "

The 'gator crashed against the grate again. Something gave, but not enough to let it through.

"If he squeals - "

It roared like something from the pits of Hell. The sound was unearthly, with an undercurrent like a terrified scream mixed with a death rattle. It would have made the toughest man's skin quiver.

"Lethimgoeenymeenymineymo!" Raimundo peered down the tunnel he had landed upon. It was darker than the other choice, rounded and encrusted with lichen. Neither of them had any handy shelves for him to walk on.

Still, it was alligator-less, grate-less and didn't make him wish he'd packed either his swimwear or a HAZMAT suit.

"So long, fugly." He cocked a salute at the enraged alligator. "And you'd better not try this with any of my friends, or else, code of honour or not, I'm coming back and turning you into a pair of overpriced but attractive shoes."

* * *

Dojo drifted in circles, sniffing and snorting like a pig in search of truffles. Clay held on with one hand, the other clamped onto his hat – his only real protection from the baking sun. He'd almost forgotten how hot it was out here, though it was probably just a little hotter than the height of a Texas Summer. Temple living had made him soft where temperature was concerned. When he went home that once, he'd been slick as a tourist when he arrived, and had to change his sheets after just one night because they were soaked through with sweat.

"Any luck yet?"

"There's no luck involved. Finding Shen Gong Wu is a delicate art form – a science of the senses. Never more so than when you're searching for _old_ Wu."

He took that as a no.

Minutes passed. The heat was oppressive and intense. Clay resisted the urge to use his hat as a fan in case his hair set on fire. It felt hot enough.

"Okay," said Dojo. "Okay … I think I found someone. Or something." He inhaled deeply, coughed once, and wheezed, "Star Hanabi … and a lot of rock." More sniffing. He drifted lower, dipping his head and wrinkling his snout. It was like he was sifting through the smells the way Raimundo picked through rice to find prawns. "Actually, a lot of coal – anthracite, to be precise."

"You know what anthracite is?" Clay was incredulous. His family had a history in coal mining, and _he'd_ only learned about anthracite a few months before he left.

Anthracite is a type of coal that is almost 95 percentcarbon. As a result, it is enormously dense and very, very hard. So hard, in fact, that for centuries nobody could actually _mine _it. Tools broke when used to try and prize it from the earth. Many men died from cave-ins and methane poisoning when they dislodged the rocks around the anthracite, but not the anthracite itself. Nothing seemed to work, and despite mining having been around for hundreds of years, it wasn't until 1828 (a blip on the scale of history) that James Neilson, an enterprising Scot, had the simple but effective idea of injecting heated air instead of cold into an iron furnace using a bellows.

The process became known as a 'hot blast' and it revamped the coal industry on an international scale. Suddenly anthracite, such a useful and plentiful commodity, was freely obtainable. Mining companies quite literally headed to the hills – especially in America, where anthracite belts were huge and widespread. There was a lot of money to be had out there in the pits.

Of course, that was for the directors, owners and shareholders. The miners themselves rarely saw a penny of the money anthracite brought in. Mining has always been a miserable line of work all over the world. Towards the end of the Nineteenth Century, increasing immigration meant miners were becoming markedly expendable. When the Welsh got above their station, companies brought in Irish workers. When the Irish got too big for their boots, Italians rolled off the boats and into the pits. They were followed by Poles, Hungarians, and anyone else who knew how to hold a pick and work a bellows.

Labourers were paid by the ton, which meant they had a real incentive to hack out coal with reckless haste. Safety took a backseat. Consequently, mineshafts ended up destabilising huge tracts of land by boring through them like holes through Swiss cheese. The number of recorded cave-ins shot up with the advent of anthracite mining. In 1846, in Carbondale, almost 50 acres of mineshafts collapsed simultaneously. With all that volatile mine dust, and the only available illumination being open flames, explosions and flash fires were common. Thousands died – and those were only the bodies on record. Thanks to its abundant anthracite reserves, America was especially responsible for this kind of death toll, as Clay had learned when being taught about national pride and humbleness. Between 1870 and the start of World War I, 50'000 people were killed in the great and prosperous American mines.

He'd also learned that anthracite has a built-in irony clause. It is the toughest thing to set fire to in the history of coal, but once you get it lit it's almost impossible to extinguish. Water doesn't help. Neither does trying to cut off oxygen. This is mainly because people don't tend to notice anthracite fires until they're too big to contain, or else don't take them seriously until it's too late. In 1850, one uncontrolled fire began in Lehigh, Pennsylvania, and didn't burn itself out until the Great Depression – a full eighty years after it started. Centralia, also in Pennsylvania, still has an anthracite fire burning merrily away in the caves beneath the town. It started in 1962. In 1981 the ground above it started collapsing, allowing great gusts of flame to erupt from the earth, forcing townspeople to up sticks and move away in a mass evacuation. As recently as 1996, mine fire authorities observed quite frankly that, if the rate of burning holds steady, there is enough coal under Centralia to burn for more than a thousand years.

Keeping all that in mind, Clay wasn't at all sure Kimiko and the Star Hanabi should be anywhere near lots of anthracite.

Dojo looked annoyed at his knowledge being questioned. "I've been guarding a dusty old scroll for the past 1500 years. There isn't a lot of opportunity for adventure in that. You think I haven't kept up on world events and general trivia? What else was I supposed to do with my time?"

"We," Clay said bluntly, "have gotta get Kimiko outta that there predicament."

"No kidding."

"How far down is she?"

"Actually, not very. Underground, but not far from the surface, I'd say. The problem isn't where she is. The problem is where _we _have to go to _get _to where she is."

"'Scuse me?"

"This … building," Dojo didn't sound too sure of the word, "is swarming with magical energies now. It's like you woke up a whole bunch of spells when you went in."

"When _we_ went in, partner."

"Sure, sure. But we won't be getting in again if I don't find a weak spot where we can punch through."

"We punched out easy enough."

"These spells aren't for keeping things in, they're for keeping things _out_. And I don't know about you, but I don't want a repeat of last time."

"Right, so no drawbridge."

"No _door_. We're doing this the hard way."

Clay tugged unhappily at his hat. "Fantastic."

A speck moved on the horizon. Dojo lifted his head sharply, almost dislodging Clay's seat.

"Hey!"

"I smell something ghostly and something spicy."

Though often slow in speech, Clay wasn't slow on the uptake. "Aw, hell's butt. Where?"

"Over there." Dojo gestured at the speck, which was reshaping itself into a hovercar as it approached. They couldn't see who was behind the wheel, but it was a safe bet Jack Spicer was driving. "We must've made really good time if we not only beat him here, but got into all this trouble before he even arrived."

"Quick," said Clay, "we don't want that snake takin' advantage of us while we're lower than a groundhog's bellybutton."

"Come again?"

"Find a weak spot and punch us in, fast, so's he can't follow an' try to steal our Shen Gong Wu while we're separated."

"Or find the Saladin Shield and nab it for himself."

"That too."

* * *

"Hurry, Jack!" Wuya urged.

"I'm hurrying," he replied, shifting gears and pressing the accelerator. "You are such a backseat driver."

"Never mind that. Just follow that dragon. He may lead us to the Saladin Shield."

"Why bother? I mean, can't you do pretty much the same sensey thing as Dojo?"

She fixed him with a withering stare. "Can't you feel the raw magical energies?"

"Uh, no?"

"They saturate this place! They inundate it! They – oh, never mind. Just do as I say."

"But why?" A whiny note crept into Jack's voice. He peered up at the fortress. "Ugh, I'm getting heebie-jeebies just looking at this dump. Haven't they ever heard of 'less is more'?"

"Because, you imbecile, if we don't keep tabs on the Xiaolin warriors, they may find they Shield before us and make off with it before we're even close to finding it for ourselves."

Jack thought about this for approximately half a second. "Good point." Then he floored it.

* * *

Kimiko was just wondering how the hell she could get up to the holes in the ceiling – they looked big enough for her to squeeze through if she hunched her shoulders in – when the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle. She was possessed of the immediate feeling that she was being watched.

She spun on her heel … to find nothing there.

Or so she thought.

**_Swush-swup. _**

It was the same noise she'd heard before, only louder and much, much closer.

**_Swush-swup. _**

**_Swush-swup. _**

**_Swush-swish-swush-swup. _**

**_Swush-_**

Kimiko raised her eyes, following the sound to a patch of shiny blackness on matte black walls. The weak light reflected off an uneven, sticky-looking blob. She was reminded of when she was eight and dropped a jar of Marmite on Kohana's kitchen floor.

Something sizzled to her left. She turned just in time to see another blob, higher up the wall, slithering towards the first one. Another bubbled up from a large crack near her foot. When each blob reached the first they merged together, creating a larger mass that pulsed and undulated like it was alive. Thin, vein-like stripes erupted across it as it grew. As more and more patches of sticky black materialised, it sprouted what looked like reddish flowers – flowers that looked like they were ready to go from bud to bloom. All this was accompanied by a soundtrack of gummy, slurpy noises.

"Okay," Kimiko breathed, "_that _is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen."

It kept growing. She watched in horrified fascination. When it was the size of a small child it stopped sucking pieces of itself from the stonework and just throbbed against the wall of the cave. Thick, ropy vines seethed from it, wrapping around each other, fusing together and then separating again. Every one of these ended in a bulging red bud, which opened to reveal that they were not, in fact, flowers at all. They were lidless eyeballs.

Kimiko took a careful step away from the … whatever it was. "I stand corrected. _Those _are the most disgusting things I have ever seen."

The eyeballs all swivelled like they'd heard her.

"Note to self: must work on internal monologue."

Something white bulged in the stickiness like a giant wart. It coalesced into a half-formed face, pasty as a death mask, lips pulled back into a frightening rictus. There were no eyes in its sockets. Like the tentacles didn't have a couple they could spare? And by the way, ew. Kimiko felt nauseous just looking at the thing.

"Your presence … called me," said the face. The husky murmur was like the deadened rasp of pebbles under a sea wave, or the slow movement of heavy stone on stone. "You … awakened me."

"Gee, well, sorry about that. We all need out beauty sleep, I know, and I'm sorry for interrupting yours." _Because you really need it. _Kimiko bit her tongue. "I'll just be going now, so you can get back to - "

"Where is your offering?" The eyeballs cast about in hundreds of directions at once.

"Offering?" She didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit. Slimy monsters with facial arrangement issues and the word 'offering' brought to mind bad horror movies and that scene in King Kong with the blonde chick chained to an altar-thing.

"I am Klubark the Destroyer. I demand an offering when I am called."

"Heh. Well, see, I didn't actually _mean _to call you. It kind of happened by accident, and I didn't even realise me coming in here would, y'know, wake you up or anything - "

"You present no offering?"

"Well." Kimiko thought about the canteen of water and her dead PDA. _Dead. Bad word in this situation. _"I have, uh, these if you're interested." She held them both out. Water was a must in the desert, but it would do her no good if she were dead – the name Klubark the _Destroyer _didn't exactly give her hope of milk and cookies.

One tentacle snaked towards her, stretching thin like a piece of elastic. She shivered, but a spark of anger turned over in her belly. She hated capitulating to obvious evil – and Klubark here _reeked_ of evil almost as much as Fleshy Wuya – but the fact was she didn't know anything about it (him? her?) so attacking would be as likely to lead her to her doom as a victory dance. Better to sit on her hands and try to talk her way to safety first.

_Hey, look at me; I'm being logical and diplomatic. In your face, Raimundo._

The eyeball on the end of the tentacle inspected her PDA and canteen. Then it knocked them out of her hands.

"Unacceptable. You offer me lifeless objects? I am the bestower of desires! I am sovereign of these caverns! I am Klubark the Destroyer!"

"Yeah. I caught that part." Kimiko slipped into a ready stance – arms loose, knees a little bent, all her weight resting on her thighs and the balls of her feet. "But, see, I don't have anything else. I lost my hat on the re-entry." _And there's no way you're getting the Star Hanabi. _She touched her pocket with an elbow, taking comfort in the familiar shape of the Star. She may not be able to use it down here, but it gave her a little confidence just by being there – and there was a lot to be said for confidence at a time like this. Her Shen Gong Wu gave her an edge.

"You offer nothing? Infidel! Then your three wishes are forfeit."

"Three – you're a genie?" Kimiko stared. He sure didn't look like the big blue guy from _Aladdin_.

"I am djinn. I am Klubark the Destroyer. And the price of my presence shall be paid with your miserable life."

She tensed. "Faboo."

"Prostrate yourself before me."

"Excuse me?"

"Die on your knees, mortal."

"I don't think so, buddy."

The creature bristled. Its tentacles rose and straightened like hackles – which was just as well, since she never would've been able to tell by its face that it was getting angry. The rictus was still in place, moving around words that echoed around the cave. "I am Klubark the Destroyer, despoiler of kingdoms. You will obey me."

"I am Kimiko, Xiaolin Dragon of Fire. You will get a clue."

The thing roared. A huge tentacle bullwhipped towards her. Kimiko flipped backwards into a double handspring, muscles protesting the lack of proper stretches after being restricted in the tunnel for so long. She landed several feet from where she'd been – which just happened to now be home to a deep slash in the floor. The eye on the end of the tentacle had exploded on impact, but another one was budding in its place like something from one of those nature documentaries with the sped-up time.

"Ew, sick! Seriously, are you _trying_ to make me puke, or is this a natural talent?" All semblance of submission gone, she let the banter roll. It usually helped disarm an opponent in a fight; and besides which, it was fun.

"Insolent wretch!" Another tentacle smashed into the ground where she wasn't. She finished her cartwheel and ran for the near-vertical wall.

"Geez, take a chill pill. It's not like I insulted your family or anything." A tentacle buried itself in the ground near her feet. She sidestepped, flipped, and landed in just the right spot to chop at it with the side of her left hand. "Hi-yah!"

The tentacle broke in two with a satisfying squelchy noise. However, where she'd cut spurted out a thick, gooey fluid. It covered her hand and wrist, and Kimiko shrieked when it burned like a thousand red ant bites. She yanked her hand away, shaking it furiously. Green fluid flew off in great gobs and splats. There were red welts where it had touched her skin.

_Okay, bad idea. It breaks easy but it sprays acid or something._

The half of the tentacle no longer attached to the body slithered towards her ankle. Kimiko made to kick it, thought better, and dashed for the other side of the cave instead.

_Okay, so it can also move bits of itself that I chop off. Well this just keeps getting better and better. I have the granddaddy of boogers after me, there's no way out except through the roof, I can't **get **to the roof because if I slow down it'll catch me, and I can't use any special attacks in case I ignite the methane from the mines and blow myself up. Plus I'm tired, grubby, I have no idea where the others are, and I'm lost in a magical nuthouse. Could this **be **any more depressing?_

The creature slid down the wall, reabsorbed its severed tentacle, and headed after her at an alarming clip. Kimiko was forced to duck when a ball of sticky black stuff shot over her head. It splattered on the floor and reached for her in the twisted semblance of a hand. She spun on her heel and ran in another direction.

_I just had to ask, didn't I?_

* * *

Omi decided he didn't much like hospitals. He knew this one was hardly indicative of what actual hospitals were like, but he also knew that he would never again be able to step into one without shivering and looking suspiciously at the nurses.

He had found a suitable window to outside. Unfortunately, his path was blocked by a row of savage wheelchairs.

Wheelchairs were not supposed to move on their own. They were just bits of metal and plastic welded together to help people get around. They were _not _supposed to growl (how were they doing that, anyway? They had no mouths), they were _not _supposed to try to break your legs by running into them at speed, and they _definitely _weren't supposed to try to cave your head in by rolling over it.

Omi had damaged one with a flying kick, collapsing the seat and making bits of padding pop out. This seemed to enrage the other two. They rolled at him, but were driven back by a flurry of kicks and punches that bent their spokes and tore off the odd attachment. A foldout dinner tray went flying across the hall. A set of earphones careened into a lightshade, shattering the bulb and raining sparks down on them.

All the while Omi was conscious of the comatose nurse monster, not to mention all her 'sisters' on the other side of the melting ice wall. Who knew how many staircases this hospital had? He'd climbed four to get to this point, and there had been another leading somewhere else that he hadn't taken. It was a warren of passageways, side-corridors and turns not taken, all of which left him feeling quite dizzy. Even the magic maze he and his older self had gone through felt simple in comparison.

He tried talking to the wheelchairs. If they could growl then it stood to reason that they might also have ears. "Please move. I wish to hurl myself through that window and you are in my way."

Anybody just tuning in would probably have thought him suicidal, deranged, or both, but the reality was far from it. Omi planned to get out, then use ice from the Orb of Tornami to bridge himself to safety. After that he could set about rescuing his friends and finding the Saladin Shield so they could get out of this crazy place. It made perfect sense.

The wheelchairs snarled, rolling forward and screeching back on twisted wheels. They were as intent on keeping him from the window as he was on getting there.

Omi frowned and brought out the Orb. "I did not wish to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Orb of Tornam – _ow!_" Something small and sharp bit into the back of his neck like the mother of all mosquitoes. He yelped and turned to see the nurse monster coming down the corridor towards him. When he pulled the small sharp thing from his neck it looked a lot like a blow dart. "Oh dear."

"Naughty, naughty," said the nurse. In her hand was a small thin steel pipe, rather like a piccolo. That hand had reverted back to fingers, but the other was still a bristling mass of needles. The thumb-hypodermic was missing – or not missing, really, because it was in Omi's hand. It was also empty of greed fluid. "No running off now. We have a _special _ward for people like you. Hurling yourself out of the window – honestly, I've never heard such a thing." She tutted like an exasperated mother who's just heard her child stuffed paste into a classmate's mouth during naptime.

Omi stumbled backwards. Was it his imagination, or had his centre of balance shifted? One of the wheelchairs bumped against his leg, not trying to crush him now. It was more like it was trying to herd him towards the nurse like an obedient sheepdog that just caught sight of the shepherd.

Omi shook his head to try and clear it. He had no other option but to presume the dart had been drugged, which meant that if he wanted to do anything he had to do it fast. He whipped around and, only a little sluggishly, jumped onto the closest wheelchair. It shrieked as he vaulted over it and ran for the window, jumping so high over the other two chairs he grazed his scalp along the ceiling. Had he been able to jump that high before? He wasn't sure. The world was turning shades of soft and hot pink. He concentrated, reasserting that which he _knew _to be true, no matter what his eyes told him, and aimed.

"Orb of Tornami!"

A concentrated blast of water smashed the glass right out of its frame. In fact it took a large proportion of the frame with it, and Omi sailed through with little fear of cutting himself. The nurse screamed in frustration. Turning as he fell, Omi saw her appear at the window and swing a leg over, regardless of broken glass.

"Orb of Tornami! Ice!"

He sealed the window, and with it the nurse and the feral wheelchairs. However, by the time this was done Omi's vision was getting cloudy.

Forcing himself to concentrate with a truly amazing amount of willpower, he iced up what could have passed for a giant martini glass, filled it with water, and had a second or two to wonder why the sky was greenish-purple before he splashed down.

The shock of the cold water brought him momentarily back to his senses. He paddled to the edge, coughing, and draped himself over the side so that he couldn't fall back in – or so he hoped. There was nobody around to fish him out if he did, and he must have miscalculated somewhere, because the ground seemed awfully far away.

Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He squinted, but they didn't go away. Suddenly his limbs felt as though they weighed twenty tonnes each, and some comedian had filled his veins with hot sauce. His centre of balance lurched.

"Oh dear," he slurred.

Water tugging him backwards into its cold grasp, he lost consciousness.

* * *

_To Be Continued…_

* * *

_"Note to self: must work on internal monologue."_

--Side-fling to _Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery_.

_"I am Kimiko, Xiaolin Dragon of Fire. You will get a clue."_

-- Owes itself to something in_Chaos Bleeds _by James A. Moore.

_Could this **be **any more depressing?_

-- I think I was chanelling Chandler Bing when I wrote this.

Any and all references to anthracite are owed to _A Walk in the Woods_ by Bill Bryson, which is a really fun book, and strangely informative, too.


	6. Allies and Enemies

-

**6: Allies and Enemies**

-

"There." Dojo pointed at a large pane of coloured glass shaped like an arch. "That's our entry point. It's weak, and it's not too far from Kimiko." He flew towards it.

Clay bent his head and clung on. As he did so, something glittered in the corner of his eye. Instinctively he turned to see what it was. For all he knew, Jack Spicer was firing on them and Dojo hadn't seen. Might as well play lookout while he was back here.

"Dojo, stop!"

Dojo screeched to a halt – insofar as a flying thing _can _screech. "What, what, what?"

"Over there."

"Over where?"

"_There._" Clay pointed. "Please tell me it ain't part of these here spells to make giant drinkin' glasses appear out of nowhere."

"I'm not exactly an expert in - " Dojo paused. Something tantalisingly familiar wafted to him on the breeze. "Orb of Tornami?"

"Omi! The lil' guy must've broke out, same as we did, bless his heart. Might've guessed." Clay tipped his hat back. "Clever as a fox what went to university."

Dojo glanced at the arch window, and then out to where the hovercar bearing Jack Spicer's logo had been tracking them. Jack and Wuya were obviously planning on letting them do their dirty work. As soon as they broke through the spells he would no doubt follow them in. Dojo grunted, unresolved. Then he quickly turned back on himself and headed towards the giant champagne flute.

As they got closer, it became apparent that the flute was made of ice, which was already melting in the heat. This had made the level of the water already in it rise, gently lapping against –

"Omi!" Clay cried, a very different note to his voice. Omi was sprawled half in, half-out of the cold water, balanced lengthways on the rim of the 'glass'. He was also very, very still, and his eyes were closed.

Dojo's stomach clenched. He'd lived one and half millennia. He'd seen monks at the temple live and die. It was part of the way things went – whatever lived eventually died. It wasn't something he liked to talk about much, but it lurked in the back of his mind sometimes. Omi's stillness seemed disturbingly familiar. He put on an extra burst of speed and hovered next to the little Dragon.

"Get me closer," Clay instructed. "I think … yeah, he's breathin'. Barely. If I can just … fish him out of this here … water …"

Something plunked back in.

"Dagnabbit! There goes the Orb of Tornami."

"We'll worry about that later. How is he?"

Clay dragged Omi into his arms and held him close. His skin was cold, but not completely. His cheeks had a flush to them, making him hot to the touch where the superficial cold was already wearing off. He was also covered in nasty-looking cuts and bruises. Something angry and red bulged on one side of his neck. Clay carefully turned Omi's head to better see. "Looks like when a bee stings a person, only worse. Bigger, too. Ugly as a homemade mud fence. Might be what laid him out – nuthin' else is any worse than what's he's had in Showdowns."

"How big are we talking?"

"Big enough for me to see the lil' black dot where the stinger went in."

"But no stinger actually there?"

"Nope."

Dojo considered this. "Omi's not allergic to insect bites or stings, but if it's as big as you say then it could be a really _big _bee. From what we've seen of this place, not to mention the creatures in it, I couldn't say it's impossible – or what damage something like that could do."

Clay found himself gently stroking Omi's forehead. Omi was such a strong presence in his life that it was a little disturbing to see him like this; injured and so … _small_. Omi didn't get hurt. Omi was the one who saved the day. He fought and smiled and missed the punch-line. He did _not _go down first, and he did _not _nestle in his friend's arms like a little hairless baby. Clay had seen Omi lose fights before, sure, but never _permanently_. Not like this; without somehow, some way, being able to ultimately redeem himself and triumph over evil in the end.

The troubling taint of the situation was like a wake-up call to Clay. This place was more dangerous than he'd thought – and he'd thought it was pretty damn dangerous. It made his concern for Raimundo and Kimiko flare. It also made him angry.

Not many people had ever seen Clay angry. Those who had never forgot the experience. It was like seeing a rather plump church-mouse suddenly roar and show razor fangs. Now, his anger was directed at the building that had separated him from his friends – and already caused one of them harm.

"A while back we passed an oasis with a medical outpost in it," he told Dojo. "Punch me through that weak spot y'all were talkin' about, then take Omi there."

Dojo knew where Clay meant. It was one of the larger oases – not great for a tourist trap, but with a few indigenous people camping there. The medical outpost was part of an aid-worker project funded by a private charity. It may not have been home to the latest advances in brain surgery, but it probably knew how to deal with scorpion stings and the like, which was the best they were going to get at this short notice.

Still, he saw a flaw in this plan. "Kid, minor detail; dragon, remember?"

"You'll think of sumthin'. The alternative is us goin' in an' Omi stickin' with us as he is. Or both of us takin' him an' leavin' Raimundo an' Kimiko here."

Omi's breathing was shallow. His eyelids flickered as though he was experiencing the worst of cheese-induced nightmares.

Dojo ground his teeth. He didn't like this. The Xiaolin warriors were already separated. To fragment their numbers more laid a weight on his shoulders he wasn't sure he cared to carry. Then again, the little bundle in Clay's arms weighed an enormous amount when he considered the substitute plan…

"I hate being backed into corners. All right, kid, but you'd better take care of yourself; otherwise I'll burn your behind to a crisp. You know I can do it with the right hot sauce."

Clay gave a rueful grin. "I know. Third Arm Sash!" The sash stretched into the water and pulled out the dripping Orb of Tornami. He tucked it into place. It wouldn't hurt to have a little extra firepower now he was going solo. "Now let's get to it, afore Jack Spicer tries anythin' untoward."

-

"What are they _doing_?" Jack demanded. He was craned forward over the steering wheel, trying to see what Dojo and the Xiaolin warriors were up to. He squinted at the giant glass they had created for some unknown reason. It wasn't even very well made – all jagged and bumpy where it should have been smooth. His mother would have thrown craftsmanship like that straight in the trash.

"How should I know?" Wuya replied.

"You could always go check."

"I'd say 'and blow our cover?' but you've already done that."

"Picky, picky. They probably knew we'd be coming anyway. We always do. Why do you suppose they made that glass thing?"

"If you don't stop asking stupid questions I'm going to – they're moving!"

"You're going to they're moving?"

"No, Jack, they're actually moving. Changing location. Altering their course. _Follow them_!"

"Oh. Well why didn't you just say that?" He shoved the hovercar into first gear. It lunged forward in a kangaroo jump. "Sorry! Too much oomph." He tried again. This time they smoothed along, engine purring. "That's the way. C'mon, Eileen."

"Eileen?" Wuya asked despite herself. "Who's Eileen?"

Jack lovingly patted the dashboard.

"You _named _this vehicle?"

"What? Lots of guys give their cars names. It's idiosyncratic."

Wuya stared at him. "I'm surprised you even know the word."

"Y'know, I could develop some real emotional disorders from all this unconstructiveness you throw at me. Would it _kill _you to throw some praise as well, sometimes?"

"Jack," she said in a tone as wet as the desert around them, "I'm already dead."

-

Dojo held Omi in one hand, trying incredibly hard not to accidentally crush him. It was a lot more difficult than it seemed. When one was hurtling towards a large glass window cloaked in a known shielding spell, one tended to tense up. Tensing up meant tightening his grip, which was exactly what he _didn't_ want to do with Omi already so frail. So he was attempting to get up enough speed to crash through several barriers of unknown strength, while at the same time keeping his muscles loose.

Yeah, real simple.

"Hold on!"

On his back, Clay dug in with his hands, knees and feet.

The shielding spell bowed inward when Dojo's snout made contact, like a sheet of Clingfilm stretched taut. Something shimmered in front of his eyes, trying to repel him, but he'd been right on the marker when he said this was one of the weakest spots in the fortress's defences. A little extra pressure, a little slice with one of his claws and … the shield tore. The break was tiny and already trying to heal itself, but Dojo shot through while he could.

After that, the stained glass was easy. It wasn't magickal and it shattered, spraying the room inside with thick shards. Too late, Dojo wondered if there were any people inside. There weren't, but he mentally chastised himself for not thinking about that sooner.

_I'm getting just like those kids. Always thinking about the consequences when they're already happening, never looking before I leap –_

"Guess this is my stop," Clay called. Dojo felt him relax his grip just a little in preparation to jump.

_Case in point._ "Hang on. I'll get you closer to the floor so you don't go splat."

"Much appreciated."

The room beyond the shattered window was drab and grey, lined with wooden pews and the odd stone statue. An altar sat at the front covered in a long white cloth and a candelabrum, while a high ceiling vaulted overhead, painted with clouds and cherubs with rosy pink bottoms. He sailed towards the floor and paused long enough for Clay to disembark.

The Dragon of Earth turned and shot him a rueful grin. "Me an' the others will catch y'all up."

"I'll be back for you - "

"Don't worry about us," Clay said sternly. "You just concentrate on gettin' Omi to safety. We can manage just fine on our lonesome." He shook his head. "Man, now there's sumthin' I thought I'd never say."

"No, you can't. You're not crossing that much desert on your own. Forget courage, that's just stupidity. I'll come back for you as soon as I know Omi isn't going to be spirited away by social services or anything."

"Guess I'd better just say yes so's y'all can get to it, huh?"

"Smart kid."

The exchange was part formality, part guilt. Dojo didn't want to leave Clay behind. Who knew what other surprises this horrible place had in store for his other three charges? Nothing good, no doubt. Just the thought of what might happen while he was flitting across the landscape made his scales itch –

"Dojo." Clay gestured. "_Go_."

With many a backward glance, Dojo went.

-

"Duck!" Wuya yelled.

The hovercar dipped as Dojo's massive bulk sailed over it. "Hey, mind the paintwork!" Jack wound down his window and leaned out. "Where's he going?"

"Who cares? Just get through that opening he made."

"But the Xiaolin dweeboids weren't on his back - "

"So much the better. Now _move_."

-

Clay regarded the room dubiously. Nobody – or should that be no_thing_ – was around to give him grief. Nobody was around to give him any help either. It was a double-edged sword.

_Dojo said Kimiko was closest, an' she was in a place underground with a lot of coal. So I guess I'd better find a way of goin' down a floor or two._

He was three steps towards the ornate double doors when a large metal container blasted through the entrance in the window Dojo had already made. It clipped a jagged piece of glass, tipped sideways a little, then righted itself and slowed as it passed in front of him.

Clay frowned. "Jack Spicer."

"Hey there, cowboy." Jack waved through the driver's window. "Sorry, can't stop. Got me a Shen Gong Wu to find. I'd offer you a lift, but y'know," he shrugged, "evil and all that."

"Jack, usually I would be in favour of taunting the Xiaolin warriors - "

"Warrior. There's only Clay here."

Wuya floated in front of him. "So he is. Where are the other three, boy?"

"Wuya! I can't see!"

"I'm translucent, Jack. Stop whining."

So they hadn't seen Omi in Dojo's hands. Good. Clay wouldn't put it past either of these two to take pot-shots while Omi was down. On his own, Jack might not have been low enough to try it; but Wuya? After all she'd ever done, said, or tried to do to them, Clay wouldn't put much past her. "Beggin' your pardon, but why should I tell you, witch?"

"My pardon is not given, you insolent whelp. Jack!"

"Yu-huh?"

"Crush him."

"Isn't that a little harsh? I mean, you _are _a witch, and he was polite about it - "

"Just do it, you fool!"

Long robotic arms extended from beneath the hovercar. Clay squared his shoulders. "Can't say I'm sorry to do this. Third Arm Sash! Earth!"

The rock-like tassels of the sash shot out and punched right through the front of the hovercar, coming out the other side with a collection of wires and twisted metal in its fist. It withdrew and the hovercar whirred unpleasantly. Thick black smoke began to belch from the entrance and exit holes.

Jack shrieked. "Eileen! Baby, please don't do this! C'mon, girl, stay with me." He sounded like was pleading with a leaving lover instead of a failing car. He tapped frantically at buttons on the dashboard, pushed at all the pedals and turned the wheel, but to no avail. As Eileen sputtered and died, Jack was forced to abandon her rapidly descending wreck. He hovered above on his helipack as she crashed, taking several pews with her, and eventually came to rest buried in one of the walls. "_Eileen_!"

"Eileen?" Clay echoed.

"It's idiosyncratic," Wuya said dryly.

The hovercar's wreck gave off a few sparks. Something dark and liquid puddled around the chunks of stone and debris, and a strong smell of oil hit the air.

"Uh-oh." Jack moved away from where he had been trying to inspect the damage. Another few sparks burped up, and he fled to cower behind a statue of the Virgin Mary. "Fire in the hole!"

Clay hit the deck just as a yellow-orange ball of fire blossomed around the hovercar. The heat from it was intense, but the majority was short-lived. Bits of shrapnel and the burnt-out shells of Jack-bots from the trunk were flung outwards with tremendous force.

"Third Arm Sash! Earth!"

The sash moved at a speed that would have given lightning a nasty shock, deflecting any shrapnel that might have caused Clay injury. One piece decapitated a statue of St. Peter. Another completely shattered St. Francis. Several more were shot into the wall, plaster and loam exploding outwards with each one.

A general pulsing of hot air washed over him as the initial mushroom cloud of fire subsided, leaving ugly black scorch marks up the wall. Everything wood near to the wreck was ablaze; pews, roof beams, even the chandelier and several supporting struts, which were also wood. When Clay looked up he heard something crackling nearby, and realised a second later that it was the top of his own hat. He jumped up, threw it to the floor and stomped to put out the small flames.

A loud, long scream sliced open the air. It seemed to come from all directions at once.

Jack clapped his hands over his ears. Clay left off stomping on his hat to do likewise. Even Wuya looked a little taken aback by the sheer awfulness of the noise, though it did little to dull the hungry air around her. She was still intent on finding the new Shen Gong Wu, and not even supernatural screeching was going to put her off.

_I … am … in pain …_ said a voiceless voice, punctuated by another scream.

For one dreadful second Clay remembered they were in some sort of church and thought it was the Voice of God speaking to them. Then he recognised the sensation of words just arriving in his head without actually being spoken – except this time they were infused with emotion where before they had been a detached monotone. They scraped along his skin, setting all the fine hairs on end.

_It burnssssss …_

The wall. It had to be the wall. And the ceiling. And the pews. And everything else alight in here.

Fumbling, the screams going right through his head and making his skull hurt, Clay brought out the Orb of Tornami and shouted, "Orb of, ngh, _Tornami_!"

Immediately, gouts of water splashed onto the spreading flames created by the explosion.

The fire was drowned in under a minute, such was the force of the Orb's waters. Clay shut off the flow when there was an inch swimming around his shoes.

The screaming ended with what could have been a sigh of relief, though the silence that followed was almost as deafening. For a moment it felt as though the great pause button of the universe had been pressed, giving Clay time to look around and truly take stock of his situation.

Ping.

"Okay." Jack emerged from his hiding place and vigorously shook his head. "What the hell was that?"

"Did I forget to mention that the buildin's alive?" Clay tutted. "I must be gettin' right absent-minded in my old age. Brain like a water balloon stabbed with a knittin' needle, doncha know?"

"Alive? Like, _The Shining _type freakiness? Oh man." Jack look around fearfully.

"Uh, not be rude, but y'all already live with a 1500 year old ghost. What's a talkin' buildin' to you?"

"Ghosts can't drop ceilings on you."

"Though they can want to with all their might," Wuya snarled. "Quickly, Jack. The Saladin Shield isn't going to discover itself."

"Wait a second." Jack scampered over to the thoroughly destroyed hovercar, black and warped from the fire. He laid a reverential hand on it, then snapped it away from the hot metal. As a compromise he took off his goggles and pressed them to his chest. "Farewell, Eileen. You were … you were always my favourite."

"Oh, for the love of evil." Wuya flew over and pushed her face into his. "In case it had escaped your notice, there is a Xiaolin Dragon over there, and he's getting away to find the Saladin Shield ahead of us."

Clay was indeed sneaking away, tiptoeing through the debris while Jack paid his last respects to his creation. He gave up on subtlety when Wuya pointed him out, running the last few metres to the double doors that were the only entrance or exit to the room – aside from the gaping hole in the window, of course.

Thinking better of backchatting, Jack shoved his goggles over his head and ran after him.

Which was when the voiceless voice decided to make itself known again.

_You._

Jack skidded to a stop. There was a commanding, even threatening note to the voice this time. Clay looked up from where he was struggling with a huge deadbolt easily the size of his arm.

_You are not one of the Xiaolin seekers._

"I think it's talkin' to you."

"Well no _duh._" For all his bravado, Jack still looked a little intimidated by the fortress's ability to speak. There was no face to put the voice to, after all; no eyes to read expressions in. It was an unsettling thing, this sensation of being watched from everywhere, every angle, every nook and cranny a potential gaze, with no hope of privacy. Big Brother writ gigantic. It was possible that only Wuya's fearsome look made Jack thrust his chest out and sniff, "Like I'd _want _to be one of those losers? Puh-lease. I'm Jack Spicer, evil boy genius, and don't you forget - "

_You were not invited in._

"I'm not invited into a lot of places." A pause. "Wait, that didn't come out right!"

_You are not welcome here. Neither is your assistant, the ghost._

"Assistant?" Wuya thundered, incensed.

Jack gave a wicked grin. "Going down in the world, aren't we, Wuya?"

_You must leave_.

"Sorry, no dice. I'm here for the Saladin Shield, and I'm not leaving without it."

As if in answer to this bold statement, a large purple vortex, like a whirlpool laid on his side, appeared in front of him. Its pull was insistent, dragging at Jack. He screamed and tried to run away, but the exertion was cancelled out and he just ended up running in place. Slowly, inexorably, his heels scraped backwards into the vortex.

Wuya went much faster. With a shrill yelp of anger, her wraithlike form was dragged in and swept away.

Jack jabbed at a button on his chest. Propellers sprang from his helipack, giving him a little extra lift. "Ha _ha!_ What do you think of th- whoa, hey!" Rather than help, loss of contact with the floor meant it was far easier for the vortex to suck him in. "Clay! Dude, you're a good guy! Help meeeeeee!"

"Aw, man." Clay bit his lip, and then leapt over a broken pew towards him. "I hate it when this sort of thing happens. Hang on, partner."

"To what!"

Jack's fingers, the only part of his hands visible through his gloves, were sweaty and cold. Clay clasped them and dug his own heels in, leaning backwards and using his whole bodyweight to try and anchor them both down. "Hychk – Third … Arm … Sash!"

The sash shot out and grabbed a pillar. Not a moment too soon, as Clay's left foot went from under him and he pitched backwards. He hung there, caught between two inexhaustible forces – one the one hand the strange vortex, on the other his own Shen Gong Wu. Jack's grip turned iron as he fought against being sucked away into the purple nothingness.

"I don't wanna die!" he screeched. "I'll be good, I promise! I'll rescue kittens from trees. I'll help old ladies cross the street. I'll stop trying to conquer the world; just please don't let go of me!"

"Who do you think I am?" Clay grunted. "You? I won't let go."

"I'm holding you to that!"

"Just shut up an' hold tight!"

Clay felt as though he were being torn in two. The vital organs around his midriff were squeezing into other parts of his body where they really wasn't any room for them as his waist narrowed. His arms screamed, and the muscles in his back, already sore from the incident with the gargoyle, were in a full-scale revolt. He gritted his teeth and wiggled his legs like it would help.

Jack's sweaty fingers slipped a little. "Aaaah!" he yelled. "I'm slipping!" He slipped a little more. "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die, and then I'm gonna come back and haunt you Xiaolin losers for letting me die!"

"You ain't gonna die."

"You couldn't lie to save your life, Clay. Or mine! Eeeeeeaaah!" Clay found himself holding only one of Jack's hands. Jack's other arm flailed wildly, making it extra difficult to keep hold of him. "I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie - "

Clay tried to pull Jack towards him, going hand over hand up the other boy's arm. Jack's coat was loose, making this extra difficult, but he tried nonetheless. If he could just get a better grip, perhaps slide his hands through the straps of the helipack –

Too late. Jack slithered completely from Clay's grasp with an earsplitting screech. His body went tumbling away as though on the best chute in the weirdest water park on earth. He shrank to a dot in next to no time. When the last of his scream had faded away, the portal disappeared with a faint 'chink', like a pool cue hitting a ball.

The opposite force removed from his equation, Clay flew backwards into the pillar the Third Arm Sash had grabbed. His abused back took most of the blow, and he spent a few long moments catching his already short breath. His lungs hurt. In fact, most of him hurt. It was a miracle he was still conscious.

He was left windswept and boggling, suddenly alone but not quite. He was conscious of the fortress's 'gaze' upon him, and when he had breath enough to speak he swallowed. "Where did they go?" Jack Spicer may not have been on his list of favourite people, but he didn't want what had happened to Omi to happen to anyone else. He could only imagine how Jack would deal with the creatures he and Dojo had encountered without his Jack-bots to protect him.

_Away._

"Away to where?"

_Away from here. They are no longer within these walls. _

"Oh." He breathed a small sigh of relief. Then he thought of all the horrible places in the world he really wouldn't want to go. "But y'all just dumped 'em outside, right?"

Nothing.

"Right?"

_They are not dead._

That seemed to be the best answer Clay was going to get. He braced his arms against the floor and pushed himself into a sitting position. His front was wet and streaked with sooty water. "But I get to stay?"

There was a long pause before he got his reply. _You were invited in. _

"Ain't I the lucky one?"

_And you … helped me. _It sounded uncertain of this last sentence, maybe a little strained, as though it was difficult to say. Then it snapped back to its monotone. _You may proceed, Xiaolin seeker._

"Uh, thanks. I guess."

Silence.

Hurriedly, not wanting to stay in the broken room any longer, Clay yanked on the bolt. It drew back with a noise like a coffin lid scraping open. Outside was a flagstone corridor with slits for windows and sunshine streaming in. It looked a lot more attractive than the ruined mess behind him, but Clay paused for a second.

"I don't suppose y'all could tell me where my friends are, or how to get to 'em? The other two Xiaolin seekers?"

A candle from the ruined chandelier tilted slowly and plopped to the floor.

"Can't blame a guy for tryin'." Clay hastened into the corridor, pushing the door shut and being careful to keep on his guard for anything dangerous that might leap out at him as he went.

-

Clay was right to think that he was being watched, though he could not have known that it was by more than the fortress alone. In the room of ancient weaponry, the one known simply as 'the Champion' pressed his palms against the floor as the unearthly screams pulsed through him.

_I … am … in pain …_

The pain was in a place already made vulnerable by inadequate shielding that had allowed the strange dragon to cut through. The Champion's skin sizzled as he tried to siphon off some of the heat, but the house was nearly hysterical. That room was special. It was one of the oldest, and thus one of the most undiluted, magickally speaking. There was little power stored there, but what _was _in that room was long-standing and linked to both its original creator, and a time before any of the newer rooms were made.

_It burnssssss …_

The palms of his hands felt as though they were blistering. He pulled them away, still whole and unblemished, but got to his feet. "Enough," he whispered, and stalked from the room, back to the chamber in which he had been sitting in meditation before the seekers arrived.

Pulling a small leather pouch from his belt, he poured a fine yellow powder into his hands and blew it into one of the braziers. At once, the smoke from it turned fiery red. Without showing any visible signs of pain, he reached into the brazier, dipped his fingers into the smouldering incense and streaked it across his cheeks and down the middle of his chin. A strong of incomprehensible words seeped from his mouth.

He blinked. Relief from the house coursed through him, but the manipulation charm had already begun to take effect. He flexed his shoulder-blades, in and out. They creaked like floorboards. He closed his eyes and pictured the old church room, so bland and wholesome. It materialised in his mind's eye, very much changed from the way he remembered it. The figures in it had wreaked terrible havoc in the short time they'd been there.

He felt the house's recovering consciousness beneath his own. It was always difficult to do this kind of spell when its attention wasn't divided, and pain had refocused it into a streamlined mass of thought and feeling. It felt scorched, a little angry, but also grateful. The one in black had hurt it, but the other one, the blonde boy, he had saved it. It couldn't remember the last time it hadn't had to save itself.

The Champion frowned. He remembered the Xiaolin boy from before, but not the other one. The ghost was not one from the rooms, either. They were intruders.

He sharpened his thoughts, sent them skewering through the ether with as much force as the spell permitted without draining him too much. He had to keep himself fresh for the Test.

_You._

It was easier to operate in singles words or short sentences. Less room of error. If he had more time, or could spare more energy, he might have attempted something more complicated.

The boy made some reply, but it was irrelevant because he was already sending the next message.

_You are not one of the Xiaolin seekers._

The house's consciousness bucked a little, discovering him there. He ploughed on regardless.

_You were not invited in. You are not welcome here. Neither is your assistant, the ghost._

The boy tried to argue this, but the Champion was in no mood for trivialities. He had not waited this long for intruders to upset the balance. If they did not follow proper channels, then they forfeited their chance at the Test. There were no exceptions.

_You must leave_.

He called upon one of the house's portals, thinking to send the boy into the dungeons with the hungry Slottel demons. The ghost would be locked in one of the vacant rooms. However, his hold weak because of his need to conserve energy, a sharp jab from the house's consciousness turned the portal in a different direction, spraying its contents outside the shields entirely and closing the portal before this could be changed. He clamped down, and the consciousness squirmed beneath his forceful personality like a mouse beneath the paw of a cat. It was always so _lenient_. It really was a wonder it had survived as long as it had without proper guidance.

In the church room, the blonde boy was asking a question. _"Where did they go?" _

The Champion focussed. _Away._

"_Away to where?"_

_Away from here. They are no longer within these walls. _

"_Oh. But y'all just dumped 'em outside, right?"_

The house's consciousness wriggled. He speared it, and it lay still for a moment. He retracted the mental spear and answered the boy's question. He had not upset the balance with his presence. He at least deserved an answer.

_They are not dead._

"_But I get to stay?"_

Yet more wriggling. The house seemed to have some affinity for this boy, probably because he had doused the fires that were hurting it. It wanted to talk to him. The Champion grit his teeth and _forced _the issue.

_You were invited in. _

With a burst of strength the house had not shown in many years, it beat back the Champion's control, almost shattering it completely. Taken aback by this display, it was a moment before he reasserted himself, during which it managed to get its own laborious message across.

_And you … helped me._

Expending a larger amount of energy than he'd wanted to, the Champion compelled the house's consciousness back into its core and sealed it in. It wailed at being contained, but he knew that there was no need for it at the moment. It would serve its punishment, and when it was submissive again he would release it. With the last remnants of the charm, he assumed control of its speech.

_You may proceed, Xiaolin seeker._

The charm dropped away, leaving him back in his own head. He opened his eyes, the markings on his face tingling.

In front of him, framed by the doorway, was Brother Jinna. There was a large scabbard in his portly hands. Across it was inscribed a line of ancient runes, each one etched in gold and silver.

"I … didn't want to disturb you, my Champion," he apologised.

The Champion simply smiled and held out his hands.

-

Wuya spun so fast she couldn't tell which way was up and which was down. Like soap flakes in a washing machine, the faster she spun, the more lathered up she got. How _dare_ she be treated this way. It wasn't bad enough that people – and buildings! – were mistaking her for Jack's sidekick, now she was being subjected to such humiliations as this? She was a witch who had brought the world to its knees – not once, but _twice_, damn it! And she deserved a whole lot more respect than she was getting!

When she was finally flung out of the vortex, it was into a landscape composed almost entirely of sand. What wasn't sand was sky, and what wasn't sky was a blazing hot sun.

She was back in the desert.

And not just back in the desert, but in a part of it she didn't recognise. Not that it was easy to tell one part from another _anyway_, but her sense of the Saladin Shield had dulled again. She knew it was vaguely to the north of here, but other than that, nada.

Wonderful. Just marvellous. And wouldn't you just know that Jack hadn't been thrown out here with her? Without him it didn't matter if she even went back for the Shen Gong Wu. She couldn't fetch it herself, could she?

_Where is that boy?_ She thought grumpily. She stretched out her senses, trying to feel for him. It was much more difficult to locate an ordinary human than it was to pinpoint those imbued with magick. The Xiaolin warriors reeked of their stupid White Magick, and the stronger they got, the easier they were to sense. It was only because she'd spent so much time in Jack's company that Wuya was attuned enough to his weak energy signature to feel him.

Ah, there he was. Still alive, and somewhere south of here. He'd been ejected further away than herself; she supposed because she had been sent into the vortex – obviously some sort of transportation portal – ahead of him.

She could have just flown away and left him there, but in all honesty she had nowhere else to go at present. So, still seething at their defeat by a _building_ and the fact that even _if_ they hurried back to it on foot, the Xiaolin warriors would probably already have found and taken the Saladin Shield, Wuya set off to find Jack – and more than likely chew him out.

-

Jack raised his head slowly, in case bits of it fell off. His mouth was full of sand and his head was full of that funny feeling you got when you wanted to get off the roller coaster halfway through and couldn't.

"… The hell?"

He was outside again. And not dead. He was back in the desert. And not dead. He had been chucked out of the magickal building, chucked out on his ear, no less, but he wasn't dead.

"I think I'll just take a moment to say, would you look how dead I'm not?" He sat up. The sand was hot, the sun bright, and he was covered in black. Sweat had already begun to dribbled down his back. "Wuya?"

No answer. Wuya was nowhere around.

"Aw, man. Lost her again." He wondered if she'd just been sent somewhere else, or whether she'd found another new ally.

Ah well, no matter. He wasn't dead, which was what counted right now. If Wuya got sick of whatever she was doing or hanging around with, well, she knew where he lived.

Jack popped the rotors to his helipack, which had retracted when he hit the ground and were only a little bent from being dragged backwards into the vortex. He tested them. Perfect working order. Almost. Still, they were airworthy, and that was what mattered. He just needed to get to one of those green spots they'd seen on the way in, preferably one with a phone so he could call up the spare remote hovercar. Vocal recognition equipment was a wonderful thing.

Eileen was dead. Long live Stacy.

-

"I don't _need_ this."

Raimundo decided he would never play Goo Zombies again. The real thing didn't lumber around like mindless automatons or stand there while you chopped at them with your handy machete. They were actually quite agile, as he'd found when he clambered out of the sewers into what he _swore _was a ventilation shaft and accidentally dropped in on a nest of them.

"I hate this place!" he yelled as he kicked out at a mouldering girl in a cheerleader's outfit. "I mean I really, really hate this place!" His foot came back covered in sticky green gloop. The girl sported a fresh hole in her midriff, which matched the one through her left thigh – old, festering, totally ruining the effect of her little skirt. "Dude, sick!"

The oncoming zombies just moaned and groaned. No witty repartee for them. At least Hollywood got that part right.

There were small piles of detached body bits littering the floor. Raimundo kept falling over them in trying to reach the door, which wasn't all that far away but had lots of zombies between him and it. The room he'd ended up in wasn't small, but it was dark and filled with things to bump into. What he could see looked a lot like a classroom.

The zombies were all dressed in the typical fashions of high school, too – although they were strictly mid-nineties fashions. The boys all wore their hair in curtains, the girls had twizzly bits of bangs falling into their faces, and there was an overabundance of plaid shirts.

"What are you, dropouts from the horror movie revival?" Raimundo demanded. Since becoming a Xiaolin student he'd learned that a lot of the things he'd thought of as fictional were, in fact, very real. Dragons, witches, ghosts, Cyclops – and now, apparently, he could add zombies to the list. Although he'd have much preferred another Cyclops to the undead. Less messy, even _with _the diapers.

He swung the Sword of the Storm in a wide arc, lopping off a number of heads. That seemed to work. Chopping off arms and things only slowed them down; it didn't actually _stop _them, whereas saying bye-bye to the head made them fall over and stay down. He preferred it when they did that.

What he _didn't _like was getting the Sword all covered in goo. He hadn't wanted to stab the giant alligator because, for all its attempts to chow down on his behind, it was just doing what nature intended. Zombies, on the other hand, fell into both the supernatural and the _unnatural _camps. When you were dead, you weren't meant to get up and wander around grunting and looking for (human-shaped) munchies like a vocational stoner. That made them fodder for the chop.

If only they didn't _splatter_ so much.

"To hell with this. Sword of the – ack!"

One zombie had hung back a little – a guy in a baseball jacket with the insignia 'Fresh Springs High'. He'd been muscular while he was alive, though the jury was still out on whether that mattered now he was dead. All the zombies had the strength of an athlete on steroids – even the couple of weedy guys and one girl whose black clothes couldn't hide the fact that she was (had been) woefully underweight. Baseball Jacket had snuck up behind Raimundo, and now nabbed his arms and pinned them back.

The Sword of the Storm went skittering away. The underweight girl picked it up and waved it around.

"Hey, that's mine!" Raimundo struggled. "Let go of me, buster, or you'll be sorry."

Baseball Jacket tried to bite down on his ear. Raimundo jerked his head away, and then smashed it backwards into the guy's face. Instead of resistance, or even the crunch of a broken nose, he felt the entire bone structure cave inwards. Something gooey ran down the back of his neck.

"Oh, that is _beyond_ gross!"

Gross though it was, it still wasn't enough to make Baseball Jacket let go. He hung on even though he had nothing to bite with anymore. An even bigger guy shambled towards them, tossing aside a desk that had the cheek to be in his way. It shattered the chalkboard and knocked the projector flying. He had a linebacker's physique and the most appalling teeth Raimundo had ever seen. Even the other zombies let him go first.

"Dude, you are _not_ bringing those things anywhere near me."

"Urrrrrrr."

Raimundo pressed his lips together and waited, letting Bad Teeth come closer. A little more, and … _now!_

"Urrrraaaaarrrrrr!"

He let Baseball Jacket be his balance and kicked his way up Bad Teeth's body. His final kick was a heel to the bottom of the jaw that knocked a few brown teeth out and sent Bad Teeth spinning sideways. The zombie crashed to the floor and lay there, groaning, as Raimundo twisted hard and freed himself from Baseball Jacket's hold. On his final revolution he back-fisted his former captor hard enough that he fell backwards and his head cracked against a desk.

"_That _was for trying to bite me."

Raimundo turned and stepped hard on Bad Teeth's neck, corkscrewing his foot until he heard the horrible pop of a spinal cord detaching from the base of a skull. Bad Teeth went limp.

"And _that _was for not using your toothbrush. Just because you're undead doesn't mean you let go of the personal hygiene, dude." He raised his eyes for a second. "Thank you, Milla Jovovich, for all you have taught us on how to kick zombie butt."

Baseball Jacket was getting up. With Bad Teeth taken care of, the other zombies were coming at him, too. The underweight girl remained near the door, still swaying with the Sword of the Storm above her head.

Raimundo made a snap decision and jumped onto one of the few desks still upright. From there he leapt for the light fitting, which looked just sturdy enough for him to swing across to what would have been the teacher's desk, once upon a time. There was no teacher zombie around, and he didn't like to consider what that might mean. The light came away from its mooring as his feet touched down, leaving him to windmill his arms for a half-second before his centre of balance helped him out. His new vantage point let him face the entirety of this most disgusting of student bodies.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not. Typhoon Boom! Wind!" Raimundo clapped his hands together.

As one, the zombies were blown off their feet.

"Score!" He punched the air. Then he jumped from the desk and executed a series of complicated flips and vaults through the fallen bodies that got him to the door much faster than if he'd just run. Once there, he bent to snatch the Sword of the Storm from the underweight girl. "Mine, I think."

She hissed at him.

Not having a better plan, he tried the door handle. Unlike every horror cliché he'd ever seen, it was unlocked and turned smoothly. He darted out, slamming the door behind him. Then he wondered just what he hoped that would do. Zombies who could throw furniture with a flick of their wrists were not going to be hampered by a plywood door.

As though a wall of soundproofing material had suddenly descended in his wake, the moaning noises died away, leaving him in a silence that was almost as loud.

There was carpet under his feet. He could feel it through his shoes. Thick pile, the kind found in hotels and expensive houses. The air smelled of rosemary and lavender.

Slowly, Raimundo turned to see the most luxurious corridor he could have imagined – burgundy wallpaper with a flocked ceiling and delicately carved cornices. No windows, though. Oil lamps jutted from the walls at regular intervals, and a grandfather clock stood against the opposite wall, next to a white bust of Julius Caesar. It looked like the stately homes in Rio de Janeiro, where people lived that would never, ever deign to come see a lowly circus.

"This place," he said quietly – the corridor was the sort that demanded whispers – "is the freakiest place I've ever been in. _Ever._"

He waited for a long moment. Nothing moved. No monsters wandered past, nothing crawled from the wallpaper – there wasn't even any noise except for the gentle ticking of the clock. The zombies didn't try to break out and follow him. Or perhaps they couldn't. Maybe that room was their allotted place in this madhouse. It wasn't the worst explanation he could think of.

"Hello? Anybody there?"

No answer.

Raimundo sighed. "Guess I'm doing the walk-and-see-where-I-end-up thing again. I could get really tired of that."

-

_To Be Continued ..._

-

_"I think I'll just take a moment to say, would you look how dead I'm not?"_

- From _Angel: The Series_, though the original line was 'Would everybody look at how much fire I'm not on?'

_"Thank you, Milla Jovovich, for all you have taught us on how to kick zombie butt."_

- Raimundo's referring to the _Resident Evil _movies, which strike me as just his kind of cinematic experience. ;)


	7. Out of the Frying Pan

-

**7. Out of the Frying Pan**

-

"Will you _stop _throwing pieces of yourself at me?!"

"I am Klatch the Destroyer! You shall perish!"

"Excuse me, did you actually just use the word 'perish'? That is, like, _so_ passé. Come to think of it, appending 'the Destroyer' to your name hits new heights of melodrama, too. What was wrong with just plain Klatch? The name your mother gave you not good enough anymore?"

"Infidel! I am my own maker. I am the everything and the nothing. I. Am. Divinity!"

"No, you're a giant snotball, and you're seriously getting on my – whoahellothere! Sensitive areas strictly off limits, even to goo monsters. Oh. Oh, that's just not nice. You burned a hole right through my outfit."

"Infidel!"

"Yu-huh, I got that part."

Kimiko wasn't sure you could really count this as witty banter. It was more like sharpening a fillet knife on a thicker than average piece of blunt metal. Or maybe leather. Something very … un-sharp.

She'd retrieved her PDA, but her water canteen had been crushed when Klatch rolled over it. Most of his disconnected bits had been reabsorbed, though he was still shooting the odd splat at her. More often than not she'd run to a dark corner, only to find something sticky and grabby lying in wait there. Rather like hormone-crazed boys, really.

In truth, she was getting tired. There seemed to be no such thing as a good offence with Klatch, or even a good defence. Options consisted of running away or being caught, and since she was in no hurry to go for the second, all that was left was the first. And though Xiaolin training had left her in better physical condition than she'd ever been in, what it _hadn't _done was give her exceptional stamina. Showdowns were usually short but intense. All this running was sapping her strength far faster.

Which left her in a very tricky situation. Not to mention sticky.

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'd give me a leg-up to the ceiling, is there?"

Klatch roared and spat out another goo-ball. She ducked and rolled.

"Thought not."

The Star Hanabi rattled in her pocket. It was so tempting, but she knew she couldn't. As satisfying as barbequing Klatch the Destroyer might be, somehow the idea of sending herself up with him made it less attractive. Funny, that.

_**Swush-swaaaawwwwap! Sccchhhllllrrrp!**_

An extra-long tentacle snapped out and tripped her up. When this game of ring-around-the-rosies started she probably would have been able to dodge, or even flip right out of its grip, but by this stage she was getting slow-footed and clumsy. It wrapped around her ankles, binding them together. She went down hard, throwing out her arms to shield her face because, while she wasn't Paula Radcliffe, she still knew how to control a seemingly uncontrollable fall to avoid broken bones. Her left elbow burned where it scraped along the floor when she was dragged along and hoisted her up in the air. She hung upside down, hair tangling around her face as Klatch drew her in like a fish on the end of a line.

The underdone face didn't look any better this way up. "Now you shall learn some respect," Klatch hissed.

"Oh, stop living in the past. I'm part of the next generation. We don't do respect for snotballs. We wipe them on tissues and flush them."

An eyeball honed in on her face. She resisted the urge to clap her hands, if only because she really didn't want to know what it felt like to squash an eye between them. "Insignificant mortal."

The Star Hanabi tingled in Kimiko's pocket.

_I caaaan't…_

"How do you think you are allowed to attack the dignity of Klatch the Destroyer?"

"Haven't you been listening?" The germ of an idea turned over in her mind. It was risky – so very, very risky – but so was getting closer to the big blob of black mucus that had thus far tried to perform complicated surgery on internal organs without anaesthetic. Or a scalpel. "I'm Kimiko, Xiaolin Dragon of Fire. And you're about to get flushed."

"What is that?"

"Star Hanabi! Fire!" Kimiko pitched the magickal throwing star. It whirled around the cave, flickering with tiny flames as it went and leaving a faint greenish glow on the retina. Or it would have, had she been looking. Instead, Kimiko was scrunching her body up as far as it would go, waiting for just the right moment.

It came when the Star Hanabi ignited the methane in the air, and was engulfed in a maelstrom of fire, which mushroomed to fill the whole cave. She threw out her arms and freed herself from Klatch's grip with a strong bicycle kick from her aching legs. As she landed on the floor and the maelstrom billowed, she screamed, "Judellet Flip! Fire!" pumping her thigh muscles and directing the force of her jump to propel her towards the ceiling.

She couldn't afford to screw up her eyes, but she had time to hope it was enough, and that the Judellet Flip had given her that extra oomph, and that she'd got her aim right.

Then the fire hit, engulfing them both.

Her tiny pocket of super-heated air was flung at an even greater velocity, the swell of the mushrooming fire pushing her before it. Like a bullet exiting a gun – or, no, like a dinghy riding a tidal wave! – Kimiko scudded blindly upwards. She felt something solid pass by, trying to tear off her elbows and lower back. Then she was in descent, fountains of fire whooshing beautifully past her. She hit the ground and rolled to keep her neck intact, then huddled with her hands over her head and hoped she wasn't too close to one of the holes that irony took a hand and she was killed by her own element.

Down in the cave, Klatch the Destroyer shrieked as flames buffeted every inch of black sticky skin. Klatch was very old – older than Kimiko would ever know – and it's possible it would have survived the inferno. However, it wasn't just faced with that. As its tentacles withered and dropped off, leaving the body to weather this firestorm, something small spun out of the fires, punched through Klatch's skin and buried itself far inside its mysterious heart.

For a second Klatch quivered faster than was natural, as its insides were heated faster than a Lamborghini went from nought to sixty. Then it exploded.

It wasn't a bang or a boom. It wasn't even a whoosh. It was the wettest, most corpulent eruption in the history of terminal flatulence. Dark red flame fringed with black roared through the yellow-orange inferno, cutting a path and belting all comers aside. Ragged pieces of monster rocketed through the air and slapped wetly against the walls, where they sizzled and shrivelled and, finally, turned as hard and black as they coal they were fused to.

Thus ended Klatch the Destroyer.

But back to Kimiko, who was sweating so much she should, by rights, have been dripping wet, except that the fountains of flame around her were evaporating it as soon as it reached her skin. The fine hairs all over her body were singed, and her fuchsia pink hairdo was beginning to smoulder and smell like that tar pit she'd visited once while on vacation with her father when she was eight. She turned her head, trying to see a way out, but her eyes dried out so fast her vision was a scratchy blur.

_This isn't supposed to happen_, she thought wildly. _I'm the Dragon of Fire. I **like **fire. I used to watch matches burn down to the tips of my finger and thumb. I set fire to Raimundo's combats when he infected my computer. I'm not supposed to get caught in a situation like this. _

A touch of starshine glimmered in a nearby fountain. The Star Hanabi shot towards her, slowing as it went, as if knowing she was in no fit state to catch it. It bounced once, twice, and then rolled to a stop with the lightest tap against her fingers. They closed blindly around it. It was about the only thing around that _wasn't _too hot. She clutched at it like it could save her.

But it couldn't. And Kimiko honestly didn't know what could.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire indeed.

-

Dojo's first priority was getting Omi some help.

His second priority was making sure it was the right _kind _of help.

Not being the most medically minded of dragons (he tended to look down on modern medicine, since it was incurably nearsighted, arrogant, and had forgotten more than half the advances of the ancient world), he couldn't really tell a good doctor from a bad one. All doctors had their problems. If he'd had his way he would rather have taken the kid back to Master Fung. Now _there_ was a guy who struck a good balance between remedies. You couldn't go far wrong with someone who wasn't too snobby to stick his hands in the fresh droppings of a llama to heal a man's shingles.

The Red Cross outpost had two doctors – one male and one female. The man barely looked old enough to shave, let alone tell one end of a poisonous eel from the other, or crumble enough quail eggshell to ease rheumatism without giving someone the trots. The woman, on the other hand, had a face like a fist and the beleaguered air of one who may have seen it all, but really couldn't be bothered to tell you about it without a stiff drink first – probably on someone else's tab. Dojo felt more comfortable letting her see Omi than the boy-man.

There was green all around, an adequate patch of it near the entrance to the tent with the big cross painted on the side. Fortunately there were few people around to see him land in it. There were few people anywhere, in fact. For a place of healing, it was remarkably quiet.

There were some dragons in history that could imitate any voice, pitch-perfect. Dojo was not one of these. "Help! Help!" he called loudly, edging as close to the tent flap as he dared. "Man down!"

Nothing happened.

_Must not be close enough._ He crawled forward a little more, laying low so anyone would think him just a snake – hopefully a harmless one. The desert had those, right? "Help! Help!"

Still nothing happened.

_Jeez, and these are supposed to be medical professionals?_

He didn't want to be seen. Not that he was against proving the world wrong about dragons – although being cut up in the name of science had crossed his mind, and sent it plummeting yet further in his estimation – but now was not the time to be engaging the only useful people around in a mythological debate. Although, really, how would it go? "You're not real!" "Yes I am." "No you're not!" "Yes, I really am!" ad finitum. Those dedicated to western medicine tended to be very blinkered when it came to magick.

There was nothing else for it. He was going to have to take a peek inside. Dojo slithered on his belly around the edge of the tent flap, spotted the nearest thing to hide behind, and dove for it.

It turned out to be a table – quite ordinary, maybe even a bit boring. The tent had none of the beeping machinery and personnel Dojo had come to associate with medicine. Instead, it had a line of cots – only one of which was in use – the table he was hiding behind, a few scruffy chairs, a filing cabinet, a battered water cooler, and a metal cupboard with a big padlock. The floor had tarpaulin stretched across it, but there were holes in the corners and sand tracked across it where people had forgotten to kick their boots as they came in.

Apart from the patient in the cot, the place was empty.

_Where's they go?_ He'd seen the two doctors when he circled the place. Not trusting meant he'd been very careful before allowing Omi anywhere _near _it. 'Reconnaissance' was a word that sprang to mind. 'Casing' was another. He _knew_ they'd been there. "Help?" he said experimentally, ready to scuttle back through the tent flap if necessary.

Not even the patient stirred.

"Nutbunnies," Dojo muttered, crawling out to see what was to do. The way his day was going, the doctors had probably been kidnapped by marauding demons or something. Or maybe struck by a sleeping potion. Beamed up by aliens? That would be just his luck.

The patient on the cot turned over and groaned loudly, revealing five o' clock shadow and eyes swathed in bandages. Startled, Dojo went back behind the table. "To hell with this."

Then he thought about Omi outside in the bushes, small and hurt and totally dependant on him. And even though he didn't want it to, Dojo's resolve hardened. He drew himself up. Sometimes a conscience got in the way of a really good bout of cowardice.

"Water…" the patient murmured. His voice sounded raspy and pathetic.

Dojo bit his lip, then went over to the water cooler and pulled himself up to press the lever and pour a little into one of the paper cups. It dispensed with a noise like a macaw's mating call. Then he wobbled over to the cot, climbing up on the chair next to it. Only a little water slopped out. Omi could fix that when he got better. It helped to think those kinds of thoughts. "Here," he said gruffly, trying to disguise his voice.

"Dr. Mischa?" the bandaged man said weakly.

"Drink this," Dojo replied, pushing the cup up towards his lips, since he couldn't reach his hands. The water went over both cheeks and down his chin, but a bit went into the man's mouth. He sighed with relief.

"Thank you, Dr. Mischa."

"Grrnf." Dojo wondered which one was Mischa.

"You do indulge an old fool, but you're kind and good of heart. I can tell. I can see the sun, you know. My eyes may be ruined, but I can still see the sun. It's setting on mankind. Such a shame. The boy so young, too. Ah, but you're tired of hearing my silly ramblings, eh Dr. Mischa? You listen to me even when Dr. Brooks won't. But we shall have kippers for breakfast! Yes indeed. Kippers and salt crystals. And you shall have some, my friend. Just as soon as we set fire to the sea."

Dojo arched an eyebrow. _Mad as a pickled goat. Oh, now look at me! Too much time hanging around Clay._

He hoped Clay was all right. He hoped Raimundo and Kimiko were all right, too, but he felt extra responsible for Clay. After all, Clay was the one he'd dumped in that madhouse and left. Rai and Kimiko had been taken from him. A sense of complex accountability weighed heavily on Dojo's shoulders.

The patient settled back. Snores issued from his parted lips no more than a minute later, ruffling a bit of bandage dangling in front of his nose. Dojo set the cup on the chair and decided he would have to try and find another place for Omi if he couldn't find someone here. He didn't have much patience where doctors were concerned.

Which was when a flap he hadn't noticed opened at the back of the tent. The boy-man doctor walked through, eyes devoted to the raw beauty of notes on a clipboard.

Dojo squeaked and hustled under the patient's pillow, where he wanted to slap himself for squeaking like a mouse when he could roar like a thunderstorm in his larger form.

The boy-man doctor looked up. "Hm? Hello. Who is putting this cup over here?" Footsteps approached, clumpy but firm. "Mr. Hupsu? Are you awake? No, you are sleeping. Is good. Will help you heal faster. Sleep is best medicine, da?" He spoke with an accent Dojo recognised from the brief period Vlad stayed at the temple.

_Mischa. Of course. Russian name. _

But now he had the doctor he was trapped. To talk risked exposure. Wonderful.

Although, maybe…

"There's a boy outside," Dojo said in a voice made to sound so weak it was difficult to identify. "He's hurt."

The footsteps, crossing the tent to the water cooler, stopped abruptly. "What?"

"Hurry. I can see him."

"Mr. Hupsu, I think you are hallucinating." The 'again' hung off the end of the sentence like its nail had come loose.

Hallucination? Dojo could work with that. And at least that meant Dr. Mischa hadn't seen that the bandaged man's lips weren't actually moving. "I can see him. Please. Indulge an old fool. He's so small, so very small. With an extraordinarily big head."

"Mr. Hupsu - "

"Go look for him, you idiot! It's not like I can do it! Call yourself a doctor? Pah. Not if you don't help those who really need it!"

The footsteps backed off. Hopefully that blast of venom had done the trick. It helped that Dojo hadn't faked _all _of it.

Dr. Mischa sighed. "If I am looking outside for you, Mr. Hupsu, you are promising not to get out of bed to get water again, da? You must not further injure your foot."

"I promise, I promise. Just go look." Dojo coughed. "Oh, and kippers for tea! With salt and vinegar!"

"Da, Mr. Hupsu. Of course." The footsteps went towards the tent flap. "I am looking, Mr. Hupsu, but there is being nobody out here."

"In the bushes. Just poke around, past that prickly one with the pink flowers on it."

There was silence for a moment. Dojo peeked out from under the smelly pillow.

Dr. Mischa had gone.

_Fantastic. But I suppose I shouldn't have expected any more from a doctor – _

"My god!" said Dr. Mischa from outside. "There _is_ a boy out here!" He appeared around the side of the tent flap. "Dr. Brooks! Dr. Brooks, come quickly! There is a boy here – badly injured! _Dr. Brooks!_"

The woman doctor came storming through the other flap with a face like a fist that had just punched something – or wanted to. Dojo vanished back under the pillow. "_What is it_, Dr. Mischa? I was on the phone to - "

"Is boy! Here, look, in bushes! Is hurt boy, all beated up and unconscious. Mr. Hupsu said to look, said he saw it like he sees other things, but this time he is right!"

"Excuse me?"

"_Look_!"

"_If_ there is someone out there, Dr. Mischa, then I should do more than look. I should bloody well get him inside before the sun does more damage than whatever put him out there."

"Da. I mean, yes, of course. Is just what I was thinking."

Dojo sighed. This pair was the best he was going to rustle up at short notice. He didn't want to leave Omi alone with them, though. You never knew _what _doctors would do with their weird ideas and appetite for needles. The kid was a fighter. He'd get better real quick – or if not better, then at least to a point where he wasn't getting worse. Then, if they needed to, they could go rescue the others.

-

_To Be Continued..._

-


End file.
